


Smoke Point

by sleepdrunk



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Blanket Permission, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:17:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21564832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepdrunk/pseuds/sleepdrunk
Summary: “No Spock. I’ll be fine. Just let me finish. She was my Number One and nothing will ever replace that. I’m angry. I’m at the end of my rope. But I’m so fucking glad,” his voice rose to a crescendo, then fell to a soft, reedy sotto. “I’m so fucking glad that you made it out of that hell hole, Spock. I’m done with— hell, right now; I’m just done.” Spock opened his mouth to interject, but Chris waved him off.“Nothing like that, I promise,” he said, leaning heavily on the wall again with his left hand. “But you,” his fingers jabbing pointedly between two of Spock’s ribs before correcting and moving to the location of the Vulcan heart. Here, they jabbed twice in staccato again, but lighter. Chris met his eyes with intensity.“Don’t let this job ruin you. Live your life, Spock. Men like us aren’t supposed to have families, but to hell with that—“The sound of distant footsteps and a slamming bay door shocked them into silence. Spock used his towering figure and dark clothing to shield Chris, and moved them into the shadow of the pillar. They had been careless.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 13
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes: this is primarily a TOS fic, but I have stolen elements from AOS-verse. This is why Jim's eyes are described as blue (more on that later...), and why the destruction of Vulcan is still canon, and so on. 
> 
> A HUGE thank you to my lovely and talented long-suffering beta, [BeautyGraceOuterSpace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautygraceouterspace). All mistakes and typos are mine. Drop me a line on my tumblr, which can be found [here](https://www.lovelybydecay.tumblr.com).

* * *

Spock shivered. The rain came down in sheets, like a rare Vulcan monsoon. He supposed he would never acclimate to frigid Terran temperatures, and certainly not to San Francisco in February.

“Jesus, Spock.” Christopher Pike stood beside him, hunched over the low wall of the high rise parking structure. His voice floated through the evening air along with the scent of his cigarette, and Spock’s skin erupted in gooseflesh. Light from adjacent buildings filtered through the wall of water; softened like huge, distant fireflies. A constant stream of hover cars and shuttles shot past their still and solemn figures. The life of the city was intangible, distant.

“Indeed,” Spock replied, an invocation of martyrdom that also functioned as a sharp curse seemed wholly appropriate. Spock himself found no comfort in thoughts of transcendence now as he once had— _Kaiidith_ was but a cold comfort to him now. Perhaps in time, he would come to accept events as they had unfolded, but now it was impossible to feel anything except all encompassing rage. He was raw through and through, as though his very _katra_ had suffered irreparable injury.

The incendiary cherry-end of Chris’ cigarette glowed brightly and crackled, pulling Spock out of his reverie.

“What the fuck was headquarters—,” Chris’ throat pulled tight around his words. He turned his head ostensibly to exhale the fumes of the anachronistic habit, “what were they thinking, Spock? Jesus, those were cadets for Chrissakes. We came in blind.”

He took another long drag. Spock, compelled to move closer, adopted a similar posture: bending forward and resting on his elbows, arms crossed. He focused on the ache in his freezing alien fingers, so delicate and intrinsic to his survival. The cold crept through his black trench coat, paying no heed to its superior insulating capabilities, and crept into his joints, chilling his lungs. He wondered, illogically, if a _“drag from one of those God damned cancer sticks”_\-- the memory of the words of a certain old country doctor helpfully supplied-- might warm his body and exorcise his grief. Perhaps, he mused, that was what drove so many Terran addictions.

Chris rubbed his eyes with rough, weathered fingers. He rounded his shoulders, leaning heavily into the concrete. The hand holding the cigarette dangled off of the edge like a beacon, but he released his grip and it fell; cherry extinguished in seconds.

“She’s gone.” He slapped his hand on the rough surface. Spock turned, his back stiffening in alarm. Terran displays of grief were relatively rare, despite the favoured Vulcan narrative of Human hyper-expression, and he never failed to find them disconcerting. The rasp of his friend’s sorrowful vocalizations wrenched at something deep inside him, as though the mist outside had become corporeal, and closed a fist around Spock’s spine.

“She’s gone, Spock. They didn’t do their homework. They didn’t bother to keep up the surveys— or, sorry—” a bitter, faux-smile crept across his face— “they didn’t bother to not _hire traitors_— ”

His voice broke. Spock hovered a hand over Chris’ right shoulder for a moment, and then brought it down onto the shaking limb. After a beat, he brought one long thumb up to gently press the glenohumeral ligament, and gripped the general area of the tricep brachii head and posterior cutaneous nerve with his cold fingers in an attempt to console. Chris took another shaky breath. He turned to Spock and smiled, but his eyes were full of as much sorrow as the outside street was full with water. His opposite hand came to grip Spock’s arm above the carpus, outside his clothing. The closed loop of their limbs, though muffled, strengthened Spock’s read on his emotions. Deep, penetrating sadness and immediate grief, of course—but what surprised Spock was the insistent thrumming despondency.

“How many years has it been, Spock? Wait, don’t answer that— You always just know.” He gripped once more and released Spock’s arm, but Spock held fast, rubbing small, soothing circles.

“She was my partner, and more than that, she was my everything,” Chris managed to choke out.

“Sir, perhaps you should—”

“No Spock. I’ll be fine. Just let me finish. She was my Number One and nothing will ever replace that. I’m angry. I’m at the end of my rope. But I’m so fucking glad,” his voice rose to a crescendo, then fell to a soft, reedy sotto. “I’m so fucking glad that you made it out of that hell hole, Spock. I’m done with— hell, right now; I’m just done.” Spock opened his mouth to interject, but Chris waved him off.

“Nothing like that, I promise,” he said, leaning heavily on the wall again with his left hand. “But you,” his fingers jabbing pointedly between two of Spock’s ribs before correcting and moving to the location of the Vulcan heart. Here, they jabbed twice in staccato again, but lighter. Chris met his eyes with intensity.

“Don’t let this job ruin you. Live your life, Spock. Men like us aren’t supposed to have families, but to hell with that—“

The sound of distant footsteps and a slamming bay door shocked them into silence. Spock used his towering figure and dark clothing to shield Chris, and moved them into the shadow of the pillar. They had been careless.

The footsteps, however, had come from twenty-five metres away and were at Spock’s three. At that angle and that distance, he knew their sightline was blocked. The dampened echo of their voices would have been obscured as well, drowned out by the sharp and steady drip of water from some leaking pipe.

Here in the shadows, Pike’s face was a beacon. The eerie quality of artificial light filtered through sheets of rain framed his striking blue eyes in a perfect rectangle, glinting off the mottled pink scar that now cradled his face. He gripped Spock’s arms at the elbows.

“I’ve lost my paradise, Spock. Don’t lose yours. Find the bastards that did this, find out what that—” Pike paused half a beat. His eyes surveyed the landscape furtively. “Find out what the hell that device was, who controls it, and how to stop it.”

Chris’ eyes lingered sharply on Spock for one long moment before he at last pushed away and disappeared into the night.

* * *

Spock found himself entirely unable to consider the prospect of meditation, and he was not in need of sleep. He found his way back to his apartment—suitably situated, and indulgent of his preference for spacious architecture and an aesthetically pleasing view of the Bay through windows that comprised the entirety of the exterior wall. He had procured these lodgings before his last mission, only four months previous. He stood in the doorway and scanned the large central area, leaving lights on standby. The rain had died down somewhat, and the light that filtered through glanced off what sleek forms remained uncovered by sheets of plastic.

A wave of immense dissatisfaction crashed into him. He rushed from his apartment and advanced toward the seldom-used back stairwell. He descended at a fast clip, and tightened the belt on the slim trench, flipping the stiff pointed collar up to shield from the wind and rain. From his pocket, he withdrew a small black knit cap so as to protect the sensitive tips of his ears. Opening the heavy metal exit door, he felt the cold sting of rain on his face. He stepped down onto the drenched sidewalk and set off, barely registering the clunk of the automatic lock.

He needed to expend this excess of adrenaline and emotion through distraction that could not be found in his mental discipline—not this time. He set off into the night.

* * *

Spock took in the writhing crowd. The atmosphere held an overwhelming energy; a sea of bodies moved as one. It was sexual and anonymous, yes, but it held a thrumming sense of the exaltation of being. The club lighting cast the crowd in dappled light that pulsed its way up the blue end of the spectrum, like some ancient moonlit ocean, teeming with life. The spotted light pulled faces in ecstasy to the fore like glimmering scales of a huge beast, or individual fish belonging to some great school; their minds and bodies moving as one. This is where they came to feed, perhaps to hunt—but they also came to be protected, to simply exist. Perhaps they came to hide from predators; perhaps they came in search of some sense of home . Infinite diversity in infinite combinations.

Spock sloughed off his trench. The beanie he shoved haphazardly into a back pocket. He depressed a button on the cuff, initiating the compression feature. In seconds, it was the size of a tissue packet. The garment was an expertly engineered gadget that he had grown rather fond of-- it was constructed in a composite textile, woven from graphene carbon nanotube infused silk of the _nephila clavipes_\-- a Terran species of spider, otherwise known as the golden silk orb weaver. Such composites were commonly used in myriad applications, from Destroyer class hulls to security armor; but the rare properties found in spider woven silk could not be produced at a mass scale. Spock had had the good fortune of procuring from one of his contacts, a human scientist who maintained an independent laboratory under the auspices of the Vulcan Science Academy. They preferred to work more or less unobserved by Federation authorities, and it served his own purposes to see their continued anonymity. Untraceable armor and weapons were never unwelcome in his line of business.

He took only one step forward, and was immediately absorbed into the mass. He had not bothered to inspect his appearance before departing, but had little need. Intelligence, as a career, had a knack for acquainting one intimately with one's outward characteristics and their effects on those in the vicinity. Divested of his trench, he wore a black vee neck shirt with sleeves that ended halfway down his bicep. It was incredibly thin, strong, and soft; a signature weave of Vulcan origin. The garment skimmed the points of his hipbones, the line of the hem dipping down slightly over his groin and coccyx. He wore a pair of tailored trousers in a similar but thicker fabric. The deceptively angular construction had the effect of leading the eye across his body, from hip to long lean thigh. He wore a pair of boots that were indulgently comfortable in anticipation of his journey back to Earth. They were thin and soft, made from Vulcan fungi that shared many properties to fine Terran leather when processed. They came to a sharp reinforced point at the toe, and boasted a 4 centimetre heel.

Spock floated through the crowd, his broad shoulders doing the work of separating the crowd before him. He led with his hips and, spine erect, he surveyed the crowd. He inhaled deeply. The scent of sweat and pheromones emanating from the revellers was heady and a welcome distraction to his bleak headspace. He made his way over to the expansive central bar.

The noise in the club was absolutely overwhelming, but he made use of a slipstream in the bodies and flagged down a Klingon bartender. He ordered a brandy alexander over ice, a drink for which he had become fond. He found his way over to a brass railing raised slightly above the crowd with a good view that had the added benefit of leaving him relatively unexposed at his six. He leaned one sharp hip on the metal and focussed on the slight discomfort. He slowly sipped at his cocktail, bleak mood leading to tempting thoughts of inebriation.

At this vantage point, he could see the individual dancers. Most of them were Terran natives of many races. The dancers, when they did pair off, were overwhelmingly couples of the same sex, or at least distinctly non heterosexual. He caught glimpses of Andorian antennae, distinctive Klingon forehead ridges; glimpses here and there of clothing from different planets and cultures. An Orion woman was playfully dancing in the centre of a captivated circle, before taking the hand of a young human woman and pulling her into the dance. Her long, deep jade fingers skimmed the girl’s rich dark skin as she supported her spine, dipping low. The Orion wore deep red lipstick and smiled brightly, her matching vibrant red hair glimmering in the lights. Her partner looked absolutely entranced for a frozen moment, before throwing her lean arms around her partner’s neck and pulling up for a deep kiss. Spock watched the carefree interplay for a few moments as he nursed his beverage before realization set in. Judging by their relative youth, Spock surmised that they were likely ‘Fleet cadets. Ice gripped at his heart anew, and he downed the rest of his drink, turning away from the scene. He returned to the bar for a second beverage.

Having procured the drink, Spock chose to remain at the bar, just out of the way of other patrons. He leaned back, supported by both elbows, and after a moment’s consideration, downed the rest of the drink. He felt his face begin to warm slightly, but considered that the concentration of cacao was likely insufficient to truly render him inebriated. He was considering ordering a third and joining the teeming crowd when he overheard two voices to his right, just around the curve of the bar. The crowd was thinner on this side of the bar, and despite the general heightened volume, Spock was able to overhear them.

They were both humans. Spock placed himself strategically behind a pillar and watched the pair reflected through two large mirrors. They had obviously been dancing for hours, as they were covered in sweat. Spock noticed that this was exaggerated by a sheen of artificial glitter in some sort of gel. The first was a young Asian human with jet black hair, dressed in tight fitting red denim trousers and a silk dress shirt in light grey, open down to his navel. His sleeves were rolled up tidily at his elbows, and he rested on the bar heavily as if he’d just completed a long jog, and on his left hand Spock could see a large gold band. The man next to him was slightly taller, but only by a few centimetres. This man was blond and wore a gold tank that wrapped around and tied at the back. Through the top, Spock observed how his ribs expanded, bringing a taut abdomen forward like a drum. He stood with his hand on the bar and one hand on a slim hip, his legs clad in black. They both laughed in huffs as they caught their breath.

“Oh my god, Sulu.” The man in gold paused to take another breath, vocalizing on the exhale. “Oh my God, I forgot how much fun you guys are.” A few more breaths, and he seemed to have cooled down. He took a bar seat, sprawling across it. He propped a muscular arm on the countertop, his wide, strong hand supporting his cranium. An easy smile lit up his face. Spock had to strain to hear them, and found lip-reading particularly challenging in the ever-changing lights.

“I fucking missed dancing,” said Jim, leaning close to speak directly into Sulu’s ear. Sulu broke into a wide grin. He closed his eyes in an expression of absolute bliss.

“We fucking missed you, Jim!” He said, excited but exhausted.

“I’m serious, you have to come out more often.”

Jim grinned at him.

“I do miss the scene,” Jim said, too quiet for his human companion to hear; but Spock made out the words. Sulu looked at Jim confused.

“I miss gay bars!—“ Jim saw someone behind Sulu and waved. “Never mind! I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Jim got up from his seat and threw his arms wide in a greeting. Another figure slammed into him, and Spock recognized the Orion woman from earlier, followed closely by the woman she had been dancing with

A tall man with dark hair came around Jim’s side once he had released the Orion, and slung an arm around him. He fisted a drink in his right hand, holding it with his fingers curled around the brim of a short rocks glass. The new arrival pecked Jim amiably on the cheek. Jim didn’t seem to mind altogether, but leaned back with a “tsk” and an exaggerated scowl. He allowed the man to continue to drape an arm around him.

“Hi, Gary,” said Jim, voice growing gravelly as it competed with the din.

“Oh my god, you guys would be so cute together,” chimed in a voice originating from someone Spock could not see.

“Nah,” Gary replied. He exuded a devil may care bravado that Spock found quite an irritating trait in many humans he had encountered. “Jimmy here’s too much of a scholar for little old me, aren’t you Jim?” He pulled him closer. Jim went with the motion, but resisted minutely. He diplomatically disengaged Gary’s draped form, and moved away.

A group of revelers appeared at the bar, taking the vacated stools and effectively blocked Spock’s view of the group he had been spying on. He started, snapped out of the trance he’d allowed himself to slip into. He chalked it up to his over-indulgence of cacao, combined with the ever-insistent training. Observe without being observed; constantly collect any and all information. One can never be certain which information will be relevant to the mission. Or to survival. He rationalized; he had been watching the group due to the young blond man’s undeniable appeal. He had quickly surmised that entanglement with a cadet was inadvisable, if he was indeed a cadet. The rest was simple information gathering. He turned away from the bar and dove headlong into the pulsing crowd.

* * *

The lights turned a deeper blue. The bodies in the club seemed to have increased tenfold in the scant seconds he had taken walking forward. He felt them completely surround him; practically his entire body thrummed with the feeling of psionic energy buzzing around him,like some strange symbiotic relationship. The effects of the cacao had levelled out, and Spock felt as though his tortured brain was finally too full to allow for feelings of sorrow. The music had taken on a strange, ethereal mood.

The sheer volume of bodies on the floor removed any trace of artifice from the dancers’ interactions. Figures came together, leaning on each other like limpets for brief periods of respite, and then shimmering away again. They were torn asunder and pushed through like flotsam and jetsam, but found each other again. He found himself intimately entwined with various people; coupled and uncoupled repeatedly in a similar fashion.

The lights crept their way back up the spectrum to green, and then gold. Spock was not rigid, contrary to what most assumed, given his heritage. There were a few styles of dance on his home planet, but he was privy to more than just what Vulcan could offer from an early age. As a child of two worlds, there was a richness of experience that he found rare in others. He remembered his mother, Amanda; so sweet and fragrant as she was in her gentle way, as she held his young frame close to her. He had stayed home from his tutelage that day, feigning the symptoms of a simple illness plausible enough to have been contracted from a fellow pupil. She had seen right through him, but she waited until his father had departed for the late shuttle, and put on a Jazz record. In this particular memory, one of many, Spock remembered that she played an old American jazz record from before the Final Human War. It was different from anything he had ever heard before. It was emotional, but it was as logically expressed as it could possibly be. He was entranced as a young child, and remained that way; the dulcet tones of a smooth trumpet, sprinkled with the flirtatious twinkle of the hi-hat a salve to his young soul.

She had begun to dance with him, then; after Spock had returned to “_Vulcan firma_”.

_“Vulcan to Spock! Come in, Mister Spock,” she knelt down and grinned at him, eyes alight with amusement and infinite wonder._

_“Sounds so strange, doesn’t it?”_

_“Mother, this is music?” he asked, brain not entirely trusting audio input._

_“Fascinating”._

_It was there, in his mother’s kitchen, that Spock learned the joy of dancing as humans did. She showed him a few formalized dances, but lamented she could never quite remember how to do them; and the library vids weren’t helpful. She showed him a few “swing” moves, but the favoured activity for both of them was to simply move to the music in a smooth box step, throwing in a few additional moves here and there. He remembered how, as he grew into his adolescence, she began to coach him a little more—_

_“Let your hips swing... good! Spock that’s great!” Here, he had spun her awkwardly, but the sinewy grace that would soon emerge made its presence known._

_“Yes—don’t tense up. Think about the top of your head reaching to the clouds. Shoulders up; bring your abdominals in to your spine.”_

Spock relished those memories. He hung on to them like rare gems. They were saturated in her compassion. This strange wife of Sarek’s—Spock had heard the other parents low voices as they conspired—this odd, flamboyant Earth woman, with her temperamental half-breed son. It was she who had the ability, unique to anyone else on the entire planet of Vulcan, to make Spock feel happy. She accepted him. And as he grew older, she gave a human sort of confidence that may have been anathema to his tutors and many elders, but it was like catnip to his peers.

The bullying he had experienced as a young Vulcan seemed to go hand in hand with a large dose of mysterious appeal. He found his love of unrestrained, human movement had a natural relationship to his ever-present love of scientific discovery. Several times in the course of his academic pursuits, Spock was convinced that this different style of thinking had opened a back-channel of data analysis by which he made connections, and therefore discoveries, faster and more often than his competitors. His bodily awareness and ease of movement, of course restrained in public Vulcan life, proved to be a useful tool of subtle disarming when need be. Upon completion of his primary education, he had fully investigated and secretly enrolled in the ‘Fleet; Intelligence Special Forces. He would be, for all intents and purposes, a Science division Cadet—having the added benefit of filling in for the VSA spot he had eschewed—but he would be trained as a spy.

Here, on a dance floor so many light years away from where he grew—a childhood separated not only by space, but by unfathomable tragedy—he used his body to free his mind once more.

Spock danced as if in a dream. The crowd had no concept of any dictated social rules, save the biological drive to move with exuberance. He tangled with everybody that flowed through, hands on hips higher than his, lower; behind him, in front of him. Arms, long and short, warm and fat to impossibly thin. Fingers occasioned to push through his hair, hands skirted his chest and backside. Spock, typically set on edge by contact psionic energy in his daily life, revelled in the murky buzz of minds in this setting. He was reminded of the atmosphere of soothing mental contact one felt at home with family on Vulcan. It was the one thing he almost never experienced in his work. He craved that ability to come home—to physically return home to one's family with which one shared familial mental ties, or to be able to find a grounding comfort in caressing those mental lengths when away from the home. Coexisting with non-Vulcans, especially humanoids, for months on end had always required him to erect rigid shields in his mind, rendering his familial links muted or inaccessible. When Vulcan had been destroyed, his link with his mother had been severed instantly. His father’s shattered heart was walled in almost instantly, out of necessity. The link was cut off from Spock so thoroughly that it may well have been calcified. The loss of his matriarchal link so thoroughly ripped through Spock that it had been several days before he gained the clarity to sift through his ravaged mind for the low hum of his nascent link to T’pring. He found the space where it nestled-- once shy and pretty and smelling of flowers-- had been ravaged, leaving only a raw and vacuous wound. And so he sat, cross-legged on a fold-down cot in a commandeered ‘Fleet shuttlecraft, the Galileo II: NCC-1701/7, across from a stone-faced Christopher Pike—and experienced an isolated mind for the first time in his entire life.

He closed his eyes and inhaled, the muscular arms of a new partner snaking up his torso and around his neck, holding on gently. The dancer’s thumb ran up and down the back of his neck. He bent his head just slightly and met their forehead with his. After a few moments, he became aware of a building energy at the points of their contact, and became transfixed. Upon his return to return to ‘Fleet space, a teeming metropolis of a Starbase, this was how he had found relief—but this felt like nothing he had felt previously, in any establishment on any planet. The energy hummed, and as Spock pulled himself closer and closer to his partner, inhaling their scent behind a human ear; warm and soft—their temple, the crook of their neck, he followed the energy like an insect following a flame.

There was a slight lull in the music volume, and his partner—a human male, judging by the gentle rasp of facial hair, as he brought his mouth close to Spock’s ear—leaned in to speak to him.

“Funny, I didn’t peg you for much of a cuddler.” Spock could feel the movement of his lips where they were pressed to his ear. The comment was intended to be light, and though he could feel his soft smile, his voice carried a gravelly tone that belied that he was similarly affected. Spock found himself unable to respond. He nosed the man’s temple, and when he went to reply, he found he could only release a short breath. The man shivered. He brought his hands further up Spock’s neck and ran his fingers through his hair. He pulled back a fraction, and moved his forehead back to where it was before, his nose pressed sidelong into Spock’s, his lips millimetres away. They moved as one for an age, Spock following that tantalizing beacon. They moved together, breathing the same air for what seemed an eternity. Spock felt he was in a trance. A confused part of his mind gave a passing thought to the likelihood that this was some side effect of over-imbibing, but it was quickly assessed to be less than 1.04%.

Spock held his companion close, like some kind of discovery. His hands held onto hips with a reverence, sliding up ever so slowly across a muscular, wide back, covered with a respectable layer of fat. His skin felt plump and hydrated, and was wet to the touch. He could taste the salt on the air from his close proximity, enamoured with the difference in physiology. He spanned the strong shoulders with one large hand, pulling him slightly closer,the other’s arms still lazily slung about his neck. Spock felt the vibrations of a sigh emanating from his chest, the intake of air as he lowered his head to Spock’s shoulder. The glowing mental calmness seemed to grow, satisfied that it had been followed to its logical conclusion.

His partner moved slowly in the embrace. Moving back slightly, he brought his arms down by his sides and rested a hand on Spock’s ribcage, cupping Spock’s jaw with the other. Spock followed his scent blindly, vaguely confused. A soft, “Hey,” spoken millimetres from his lips pulled him from his reverie by increments.

“Hey there, you with me?” he said, gentle and concerned. A thumb traced his cheekbone, the soft pad skimming the soft flesh below his eye. His nose rested on Spock’s as they moved together. Their hips were now moving in tandem; and though he could feel the heat building in his abdomen, there was no intent, save for the overwhelming drive to occupy the same space for as long as possible.

“Hey—there you are,” he said, as Spock raised heavy lids. All Spock could see was a blurry glimmer from a pair of blue irises glowing so that he might testify under oath were a source of light themselves. He was fixated anew, and felt a surge of desire enter the equation. He tilted his head and, casting his eyes back down, went to find the pyretic pair of lips just below his.

Rough hands, both now—cupped his jaw as gently as one might a frightened baby bird and held him still, preventing the kiss.

“Mmm... no, hey. I would love to—“ the nose and forehead returned for a beat, accompanied by hips that shared Spock’s increasing interest. “I would love to, but I want to make sure you’re okay.” At this, Spock nodded against him, eliciting a quiet laugh.

“I—mmm— we need to go get some water, I think. I don’t think you’re drunk, I just want to go cool off for a bit, okay? I know I feel dehydrated—” Spock nodded again. His partner pulled away, snaking fingers down his arm to grasp his hand sturdily. As he began to turn, Spock could now see the golden hair—soaked with sweat and water and glitter—the muscular figure, plump glowing skin clad in a green tank. He turned away, leading Spock through the crowd.

“‘Jim’”, the name escaped him in a whisper: an epiphany.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I just couldn’t—“ a shy smile, and then those eyes were back with a blazing intensity. “I couldn’t stop myself from finding you.”_

Jim led the way through the crowd. Spock spent a few shaky steps staring at their coupled hand with amazement, but the separation of their bodies returned him to clarity. He could still feel the hum of that strange and wonderful energy between them, but it was muted now. He carefully avoided allowing his fingers to slip into the formal psionic _ozh’esta_.

Jim led him towards a short staircase up to the second floor. It was no more than a deep balcony that wrapped around and overlooked the main dance floor. Set back from the railings on opposite sides were two smaller bars, with doors that ostensibly led to the back service area. Jim procured electrolyte drinks for the two of them, and they found a shallow alcove with a tiny bench on which to perch. They had since stopped touching, and Spock missed the connection tangibly. He cracked open his drink and took a long drink, suddenly realizing how thirsty he had been. Jim watched him as he did so, and drank half of his own after a beat. Spock finished the bottle, then toyed with the empty vessel idly as he surveyed the crowd. He felt as though he was still in somewhat of a daze, and was aware of a part of his consciousness demanding that his attention become more focused. He became aware of eyes on him, and looked over to see Jim gulping down the remainder of the drink, staring at him. There was humour in his face, and when their gaze met, Jim’s grin forced him to put down the bottle as he fought a matching expression that began to spread across his face. His eyes crinkled at the edges, and his cheeks threatened to overtake his eyes. Spock was faintly aware of the desire to reach out and cup the cheek with a delicate touch before his hand was on the side of Jim’s face, the pad of his thumb resting on the corner of his eyes. Jim leaned into the contact and closed his eyes, reaching up to clasp Spock’s hand in his. He smiled at Spock and a strong impression of warm happiness filled his chest—but there was a distinct hesitance there as well.

Jim blinked and straightened up a little. He still held the back of Spock’s hand, his two forefingers touching the palm; thumb running across the ridges of the knuckles.

“I did see you watching us, before,” he said, staring down at the motion of his thumb, back and forth. His eyes moved back up to meet Spock’s, under heavy eyelids. He smiled, a coy flirtation that smoothed out after a moment, and his expression seemed to take on a sort of realization. Spock watched the flutter of his thick eyelashes as irises moved in tiny twitches underneath the lids, surveying his face. Any indication of calculation or suspicion vanished completely, and his face was open and astonished. Spock felt a fast shard of fear come forth, matching of his own apprehensions. The gaze lasted only a moment. Jim blinked twice and straightened up. He moved his hand; sliding it from beneath Spock’s palm, and the back of his fingers and knuckles across the back of Spock’s.

“I saw you watching us,” he repeated. “I thought you were cute but then you left, so I ignored it, but—“ his hand slipped back under Spock’s palm, again almost grazing the sensitive pulp of his first two digits, and Spock shivered. “I just couldn’t—“ a shy smile, and then those eyes were back with a blazing intensity. “I couldn’t stop myself from finding you.”

* * *

“I—“ Spock’s voice finally obeyed him once again, the first note eliciting a beaming smile from Jim. “I must admit, I have behaved tonight in a manner most incongruous with my own typical manner. I initially thought you might not welcome my attention, given you were in the company of…” he quirked an eyebrow. “Friends.”

“That’s… oddly sweet,” Jim replied, rewarding Spock with another languorous, coy smile. “I almost forgot. My name is Jim.”

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Spock.”

Jim let another of his surprised laughs escape.

“Listen, I really want to get to know you, but I--” his lids fluttered down with his gaze as it moved down. “I don’t want to hook up. I have no um,” he swallowed, and Spock was transfixed momentarily by the movement of his adam’s apple. “I have no moral objections to casual sex, or -- not that this is just physical, I uh-- I mean, it’s also totally fine if people have sex early in a relationship, it’s not like that indicates anything--” he continued to ramble, his words directed mostly towards their entwined hands.

“Do not be concerned. I understand your meaning. You have not misspoken.”

Jim let out a small laugh, a relieved huff. He met Spock’s eyes for a brief moment. He returned to avoiding eye contact, and an eyebrow twitched down minutely. “I just feel a little overwhelmed, you know?”

“I fear that I do.” He repeated Jim’s earlier ministrations, massaging soothing motions into the soft web between thumb and forefinger.

“It’s odd, don’t you agree? The energy, I mean. That’s why I wanted to make sure you were okay, in case something chemical was at play. You never know, I didn’t want to, well… mistake someone who needed help for someone interested. What with all the druggings and so on.” Spock did not ask for clarification, but filed the comment away for later.

“I assure you,” he said, holding Jim’s hands with both of his now; willing Jim to meet his eyes. “I am in full possession of my faculties.” Jim smiled broadly and held his gaze for a moment. His flicked down to Spock’s lips for the briefest of moments, his whole centre of gravity shifting toward a point equidistant to them both, the inexorable pull of this strange new orbit a gravitational capture around a common barycentre. The air hung heavy with intention.

Kirk blinked and pulled away. “I really need to run to the bathroom, and then we’ll talk a little longer.” He rose and dragged his hand from Spock’s, the separation requiring no small effort on both their parts.

“I shall await your return.” Jim held his eyes over his shoulder as he walked away for as long as he could.

Spock lost sight of him for a moment, but then caught his face in silhouette him join a line of about six figures waiting outside the bathroom. The entrance was approximately 11 metres from Spock’s current location, but the floor was still highly populated, despite its more sober atmosphere. He took in his surroundings. He could no longer see Jim, who had made his way into the lavatory. The party downstairs had not abated-- in fact, it had increased in intensity if anything-- but the increasing instances of exhausted people queueing for hydration and bathrooms. There was a similar melange of varying species and genders on this floor. Many were in groups, and in terms of demographics and demeanor, he estimated that close to a third were likely Cadets.

His wits returned, the cacao having metabolized some time ago, and in Jim’s absence… He calmly increased his vigilance. Personal crises aside, he still had a mission. A tendril of creeping intuition, like a long, green tendril of alien aquatic life-- phylum and genus as yet, unknown-- snaking its way up his spine. Figures of long, lanky young people flashed into his awareness. An elated Andor, electrifying in a beam of pulsing yellow light on blue skin-- wide grin and closed eyes swaying a little to the music, antennae reaching upwards. Surrounded by friends. A lone human leaning heavily against a pillar, their incredible curves heaving; gleaming brown skin dripping with glitter and sweat-- tired and satisfied from dancing. A dress in dark brown velvet lay like a draped flower petal across their body, just glancing off round breasts and hips. They waved to another in the crowd, beckoning, and were gone from Spock’s sight. The foreboding feeling grew stronger. This conglomerate was about to become a hunting ground.

To Spock’s knowledge, no party was observing him-- but someone was indeed being observed. He had heard others in intelligence work describe this phenomena and could assert its existence. There was a sort buzz, of heightened awareness coming from another consciousness. Someone was watching; cataloguing. Adrenaline prickled up and down his spine, raising his hackles. His gaze moved rapidly and he stood slightly more erect, while attempting to retain an appearance of calm. It would not do to broadcast a premature warning and lose what was rapidly becoming a tail .

He saw it. A face in profile. A human man with sandy hair. The eye that he could see was fixed upon its target, staring with an intensity that glowed like an ember. The face was compact, with a pert, upright nose and a notably defined orbicularis oris. In an instant, the face was gone, obscured but for a second by another body, and it was gone. Another glimpse, and Spock saw movement of the same figure: tall, swift; bearing down on something. The man moved at a 45 degree angle from his initial position. Spock lost him again. There! Movement, just quick enough to be noticeable through the groups of meandering bodies. Spock rose and began to move dead ahead. He saw a blur again, this time 102° from his position, moving from the line of his five to his eleven, and then gone.

Spock frantically bobbed his head up and down in the crowd. They wouldn’t move . They bobbed lazily, dancing and nodding back and forth, or holding onto each other like plasticine.

Then a flash of gold-- Jim’s stone cold sober face unblinking. His eyes fixed on Spock’s. He caught the Vulcan’s wide-eyed vigilance and hollered, mouth and throat wide open to amplify his voice as loud as he possibly could.

“GET OUT. RUN.”

Spock could only read his lips over the din. Then a thump and another body-- that man!-- shoved his way through. He emerged from inside the double doorway. His face was now fully covered by a mask that fully covered his eyes, ears, nose and mouth. He struck Jim in the temple, a vicious blow reverberating through his body indicating the man’s fist was reinforced somehow. Jim’s eyes rolled back in his head but the man held him up. He pressed something to Jim’s throat and Jim’s body twitched. The man released his hold on Jim and he fell to the floor, disappearing from sight completely.

The man then launched a canister of inscrutable non-description over the heads of the patrons with a forceful overhand pitch. It flew through the air. A loud pop and a thick yellow gas-- more like a wet cloud than proper smoke-- spewed from both ends, causing it to spin and spiral down, hissing. It was crude, homemade, and took a trajectory dictated only by random holes created in the explosion.

It took a sharp jerk and hit the platform for the second floor, across from Spock and the bathroom. The air became thick and heavy with the yellow-grey smoke, obscuring visibility. Some ducked and crouched, while others stood gaping, futilely covering mouths and noses. Spock still struggled to get through, holding the fabric of his top over his mouth, hoping against hope to get to the perpetrator, but it was no use.

Something hard struck him in the back of the head, the pain searing and red hot. Had he been human, his skull would surely have cracked. He was dazed instantly, and fell heavily on his knees. Mind offline, his lungs gulped at the air as his hand fell away from his face. The gas entered his lungs at close to full concentration. His eyes ran with hot, salty moisture and the sensitive mucous membranes stung horribly before his secondary eyelids closed. His nose burned, the acrid smoke hitting into the nostril. His mouth dropped open with a choked gasp. He felt nothing but the terror of a body reduced to base and imminent survival before succumbing to the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Three

Awareness returned to him in pieces. He did not know for how long he had lost consciousness-- a mortifying thought, though not the first time it had occurred; but he was aware of a struggle in his mind between the demanding tug of a healing trance and the desire to keep moving. His vision consisted only of green auras where bright white emergency lights shone through his translucent eyelids.

A deafening roar in his ears faded to a hiss. The music was conspicuous in its absence, replaced with an oppressive silence interjected only by the sounds of agony. Shrieking. Sobbing. Wretched coughing. The tongues of fifty planets-- nevermind dialect-- rang in his ear in varying tones of anguish.

Survivors. At least there were survivors.

* * *

Fine particles had made it past his secondary eyelid, and somewhat larger particles lined his eyelashes. His eyes felt dry and raw, the conjunctiva inflamed. He blinked, opening both sets of lids by increments. Drying rheum and mucous lined his lids and his eyes watered.

His breathing had slowed to minimal by his descent into the trance, but as it sped with consciousness, particulates entered his windpipe and his chest spasmed. Yet some internal force propelled him forward, and he rolled from his supine position into a crouch in the rubble. His bare arms were scraped and gouged, jade rivulets of fresh blood ran freely over green slate scabs and wounds full of gravel. His forearms were the most damaged where he had protected his core.

He willed down the coughing as best he could, but each breath threatened to launch a new attack. He relented and slowed his breathing, hoping against hope that he would retain conscious cognition. He stood.

All around him were bodies. Exposed limbs and faces were smeared with dirt and blood and debris. Bile rose in his guts, yet a cool glimmer of relief overcame him when he registered what lifesigns he could detect unaided in most of the casualties surrounding him.

Except, of course, for those who had clearly met their end from the effects of the gas-- five humans, by his count. They had died from significant respiratory distress resulting from the gas, but not from the blast. Their mouths were lined with blood, their faces blue.

Nausea hit him in the back of his throat and seared hot in his belly: add three to that.

Three lay dead near the explosion’s epicentre, faces obliterated. Severe pulmonary contusion was the cause of death, if he had to guess by their horrible, twisted positions. Fragmentation from the explosive had further mutilated their bodies posthumously. Overpressure and brisance were isolated; the blast wave conical. It was beginning to look to Spock like a shaped charge, but the effect was random, almost as though the detonation had been stronger than intended. The way the bomber had thrown it had seemed haphazard and rushed, as though he had intended the attack to go much differently but had to improvise. The intended effect of the bombing seemed to have been to disperse the gas-- or, rather, aerosolized solid toxin. Perhaps an inflammable component of the gas had been unintentionally ignited.

His focus narrowed to a pinhole. At this distance, it was hard to tell-- but the exposed torso of one of the bodies was peppered with dark materials. Some larger pieces appeared to be embedded in the corpse-- fragmentation. Evidence. He must retrieve these shards at all costs.

He was certain it would be lost in the confusion. Emergency personnel were arriving, but their numbers could not be more than skeletal-- he saw a handful just outside of the club, assisting those able to walk. They had not yet made their way inside. Spock was effectively left alone.

The second floor of the Twin Peaks had remained intact. Enormous bay doors that made up the front exterior walls had been raised, and emergency lights flooded the floor. Structural integrity had not been affected, but detritus littered both floors. Most of those who were able to walk had made their way to the bay doors, save for those who remained with companions who could not move independently. He rose.

He spotted two men among the crowd on the main floor, one aiding the other with an arm around his waist. They were unremarkable at first; plenty of pairs or triads supported each other as they stumbled into the wet night. But something was wrong. The first man could have been emergency medical, judging by the fact he seemed unaffected-- no coughing, no visible physical injury. But no emergency personnel had yet entered the building. The second man was certainly injured. He stumbled and swayed, but he was twisted and seemed to resist the other man rather than rely on him.

* * *

Spock fixed an eye on the pair and crept over bodies and debris toward the three corpses. He knelt gingerly, partially due to his raw lungs and in part to remain unseen. He took his eyes off the pair for a second. He bit the inside of his cheek and grasped a piece of the deceased’s clothing, tearing off a triangle. It was blue synthetic and well worn, likely a favourite. He reached over and grasped a hunk of metal lodged into the pale abdomen-- blown apart. Bloody. Black blood and viscera; the horrible ivory colour of ligaments and bone. The skin was waxy and lifeless. He felt like he was floating; the images crackling in and out, overlayed with the mangled bodies of cadets; the silent horror of a pastiche much like this, many light-years away.

He turned to the side and retched, a dry heave producing nothing, and returned to his task. He grasped the first piece It was flat, slightly curved, comprised of cubic shapes. Frag matrix, most likely. With any luck, trace evidence would reveal the composition of the dispersed toxin, and leave clues as to the bombs origin. He removed as many shards as he could and wrapped them carefully in the fabric. He glanced up again, keeping an eye on the suspicious pair and pocketed the bundle.

He watched the two men. He could make out a grey jumpsuit on the taller man, the one who held the upper hand. As he observed them, he became increasingly convinced by the second man’s countenance and physique-- despite his awkward, injured movements-- that he recognized both of them. That was the bomber, and this one was Jim. He sucked in a breath and prepared to rise, resting heavily on his bent knee with his hand. He stood in a low crouch, peering down at them through strewn furniture and guardrails, his body obscured from view. Jim began to struggle in earnest, but was becoming quickly overpowered-- and all of this unbeknownst to the people around them. He would have to run. He would have to be quick, and he would have to be quiet--

A hand wrapped round his ankle with a preternatural strength.

* * *

He suppressed a shout and the primordial urge to flail and bolt. The hand belonged to a soul trapped beneath a beam, likely flung asunder from one of the temporary bars.

He shouted for help. Jim would have to wait.

“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” he called, as loud as he could. He bent down again to try and see if he could free the victim, but as it was, any attempt to free them would more than likely bring the debris down; crushing both of them. He stood at full height and waved his arms. People on the main floor turned to look up at him, then at the few professionals who had trickled in. They shouted various orders at each other and assembled, marching forward to find the safest way up the stairs.

It was enough of a distraction-- Spock saw Jim twist away from his would-be captor. He slid a leg behind the man’s knee and shoved him hard in the chest and he tumbled to the ground. Jim ran, bumping into medics and casualties alike who paid him no heed, and out of the building.

* * *

Spock waved off the medic. For the last sixteen point seven minutes, she had been alternating between running him over with tricorder and basic dermal regenerator; all the while fretting about Vulcan physiology.

“Perhaps if you are so concerned with providing adequate emergency care in the middle of Starfleet Headquarters, situated in one of the most populous Terran cities and host to more than five hundred species to date, you might endeavour to become more well versed in xenobiology before taking a field assignment.”

“Sir, I apologize, but Vulcans are simply--” she trailed off, uncertain. It was quite an impression on a seven foot bipedal anthropod. One eyestalk rotated behind

“Finish your thought. I insist. Vulcans are simply what; a dead race? ‘Close to extinction’? Or perhaps the nauseating euphemism, ‘endangered species.’ .” He was seated on a fold-out stretcher. Starfleet had erected a temporary structure a city block away from the club, closing the ground-level street to traffic. Fifty or so stretchers were arranged in rows, and a scant few non-critical victims awaiting assessment remained. Twenty-seven individuals in critical condition had been taken by hoverline to the medical centre. Eight had died on site, with one additional death in transit.

* * *

Spock pushed off the stretcher and stood. “This is a waste of valuable time.” He thumbed a bundle of metal wrapped hastily in bloody cloth that he concealed in his fist. He was unsteady on his feet and, though he tried to conceal the weakness, the metal stretcher frame betrayed him with a scraping sound on the pavement. “I must go.”

“Mister Spock,” the medic said, her voice stern and commanding; his previous outburst disregarded.

He re-centered himself and met her eyes with a sharp stare. “I assure you, the therapeutic effects of the dermal regenerator have sufficiently penetrated my respiratory system. Lung function has been sufficiently restored.”

Spock pushed past her and stepped out of the translucent white structure, and into the rain.

A block into his retreat, and Spock felt like he was being drawn down to the cement, knees threatening to buckle. His gaze was cast upward and he walked forward blindly. His eyes filled with moisture, and he would have been happy to pretend that it was all rain. He saw the raindrops, slower now, hurdle towards him. It looked like warpspace from the captain’s chair.

* * *

After two blocks, Spock’s knees buckled. He stumbled into an alcove and slid down the rough wall. He curled in on himself, his head resting against a filthy door. He fought to breathe, the crushing grief pushing hot at his chest. He inhaled shakily and unfulfilled. Racking sobs shook his chest and aggravated his injured lungs. He began to cough, his diaphragm shuddering and spasming. His breathing rate increased, yet he was unable to fill his lungs.

The world faded from view, reality fading into a murky mist.

Minutes passed. He was dimly aware of the sound of a pair of large feet sprinting toward him, rubber soles slapping inelegantly over pavement.

“Not sure where he’s got to--” it was the medic. She spoke into an intercom. There was a crackles reply which he could not make out, and then, “I’ve got eyes on him. Get a van to my location.”

A rush of air and she knelt beside him. “Mister Spock? It's ensign Rixey .” She placed a large hand on his back and leaned down to try and see his face. His head was buried in his arms where they were folded and his spine curled like a rolling beetle. He rocked, movements slowing as she burnished warm, comforting circles over his shoulders and spine.

“Breathe,” she commanded. He did so, with an audible gasp, but with her careful ministrations he managed to restore a semblance of homeostasis. Somehow without breaking contact, she managed to drape a soft blanket over him. Paradoxically, his body shivered hard.

“There. You're safe.”

He stayed there, rocking gently under her hand. She soothed his back in slow circles until he calmed. After a time, he moved out of his crouched position and they sat together on the low step; him huddled over his knees and her, still warming his back with her broad hand. Clearly, something was keeping her colleagues.

“Thank you, Ensign,” he said. “I clearly underestimated the extent to which I had been… affected. ” He paused. “And your ability to assess that fact.”

“That’s alright, sir. Shock can do that. My team just had someone go into shock in transit, so they’re going to be a while.” Her exoskeleton was wet with rainwater and reflected the jewel tones of traffic lights at night. She was pretty, Spock thought. Her eyes were on short stalks and were jet black; lensless, independently mobile, and geodesic in design. Where a humanoid would expect an eyebrow, her exoskeleton formed a tubular ridge. She quirked one of them at him and smiled.

"If you feel comfortable walking, we can head back to the tent. But, to be honest, I’d like to keep you overnight for observation.”

He took a deep breath, knowing she wouldn’t like what he had planned. With his wits about him, it was becoming increasingly clear that the situation was complex, at best. For starters, there appeared to be a slow response by investigators. He thumbed the sharp metal in his pocket through the silk he wrapped it in.

“I must implore you to give me my leave.”

“Sir, you know--”

“Would it satisfy your professional concern if I promised to visit a colleague of mine? His name should be familiar to you-- Doctor McCoy. He is a personal friend of mine.”

Rixey palmed his shoulder and took a good look at his face. “If you promise you’ll go and see him-- and I mean right away.”

“Thank you, ensign.” He removed his trench and beanie and from his pocket as they both stood in the doorway. The rain was steady and calm. He released the coat from its sachel with the press of a button. He looked her up and down. “You are a refugee from the Aphros-Bythos system.”

“Yes,” she replied, her mandible spreading. “At least, that is what the Federation called it.”

“I apologize for my reaction. My race is not unique in suffering, nor scarcity and misunderstanding. I--”

“There is no offence where none is taken,” she interjected. Spock’s eyebrow shot upwards. Rixey looked amused. “My comparative analysis of Surakian philosophy as it applied to medicine is what got me into Starfleet. Now go on, get out of here or you’ll die of exposure. And don’t think I won’t follow up with McCoy.”

“Stay safe.”

She raised a spine-encrusted Ta’al in response, at the same time erecting several dozen exoskeletal spikes at the crown of her head in a remarkable display. “Live long and prosper, Spock.”


	4. Chapter 4

Spock returned to his apartment in the small hours.

He disrobed, but not before carefully secreting the bomb fragments in a chest of drawers, and took a searing hot water shower. The bottom of the cubicle turned black with soot stuck in his hair and ground into his skin. The dermals had erased the deep gouges in his arms, but blood-- his own, dried to a slate green-- stuck to short hairs at the nape of his neck, his forearms, and his scalp and eyebrows, stinging as it pulled. He allowed the water to dissolve the last of it, watching the jade rivulets stream over his bony feet and down the drain.

He slept the few hours until dawn, naked skin tacky with moisture under silk sheets.

He rose and donned a meditation robe. He was not meditating, he was indulging his need for comfort. He ripped protective sheets off of all his furniture as he interrogated the computer.

“I’m sorry sir, there is no record of any individual treated at the scene under the name James , or any variation thereof. Furthermore, no patients fitting specified parameters were admitted to medical facilities treating the casualties following that incident.” Spock stood at his communication alcove in the sparse apartment. Sunshine flooded the wide-planked cherry hardwood. It was the fifty-sixth such response his AI had given him, even with a little creative data rerouting on top of his high level security clearance.

He activated the comm link, and contacted Doctor McCoy.

* * *

At the other end of the line, Spock heard muffled grunts and the soft sound of bedding cast aside. There was a pained, deep sigh through a pair of nostrils that belonged to someone very used to intrusive wake-up calls.

“McCoy here.”

“Doctor. I apologize for waking you.”

“Spock? Ah hell, I should’ve checked the--” another long groan, but this time accompanied by grunts as the good doctor righted himself and cast aside his bedding. His voice seemed burdened by some unseen concern, and he realized belatedly that he had likely been deployed his medical capacity following the bombing. “Well, what in blue blazes can I help you with, Darlin’?” A pause. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Likewise, Doctor.” He heard McCoy exhale. “You are aware, I presume, of the recent incident at the Twin Peaks* nightclub in San Francisco?”

Leonard huffed a laugh through his nose and it crackled in the speaker.

“Yes, I’m well aware. I’ve been running triple duty for the last 48 odd hours at the hospital-- since the casualties started piling in. Just got home a few hours ago.”

“Perhaps I should allow you to rest--”

“Naw Cher, it’s alright. I gotta get going anyhow. Why don’t you come on over at your leisure, and I’ll get you fat as a tick.”

“Disturbing imagery, even for your brand of colourful idiom.” As ever with doctor McCoy, the promise of a good meal carried the association of pertinent information along with it. “I shall embark presently.” Spock ended the call.

Though their security clearance with the fleet provided privacy over communication channels, the prospect of information being leached by a hostile party was an ever-present concern. McCoy was a veteran doctor in the ‘Fleet, but his career had taken him far and wide. He may have started as a community practitioner, but before long, he was a hardened field surgeon and had treated hostile and ally alike. He had seen the tide turning early-- far before Spock had even enlisted in Starfleet and was subsequently recruited into the Secret Service.

* * *

“My friend,” said Spock, seated across from doctor McCoy. “I have come across something of a mystery.”

They sat at a round metal table covered by a cream coloured vinyl tablecloth decorated with red apples and green leaves. It wobbled intermittently on the uneven, wet stone terrace. All around them, strange birds from far-flung planets streaked by, or fluttered and chirped in the trees. The back door of the McCoy family home stood no more than fifty paces away, all warm tones of damp wood and sphagnum moss. It-- the house and extravagant research gardens-- was encased in a magnificent greenhouse. The structure resembled its ancient predecessors; a wrought iron frame and glass panels trapped warmth and moisture, but they were not as they appeared. It was in fact entirely constructed from transparent aluminium and specialized fungi, which drew nutrients and a specialized blend of carbon fibres from their mycelial web in the earth. The light was low and tinged blue-green, the cloying atmosphere swampy. It was perpetual dusk in this part of the gardens.

“An individual, whom I know for a fact had been injured in the incident, is missing. Yet his name is not listed amongst the missing or dead, nor was he admitted to any hospital.”

“Interesting. And what’s this mystery man’s name, pray tell?” His face was a careful picture of indifference, steam from his cup dancing in front of his face. His face still bore the mark of his service-- an angry stripe of a scar reaching from his forehead to the point of his cheek, surrounded by mottled, pale flesh. A white orb in place of an eye that had its own glow, and whirred and clicked if you listened closely.

“James.”

The doctor’s face was unreadable.

“Oh? Not much to go on.” He lowered his coffee cup enough to speak, appearing carefully indifferent. “Family name?”

“No. However--”

“Spock, would you excuse me a moment?” Leonard stood as if to leave, but stopped and turned, gripping his chair by the back. “This wouldn’t be some kind of conquest, would it?”

“Conquest, Doctor?”

“Don’t you Doctor me. I know how you let off steam. I’m not judging, mind. But...just this once, I need to know your motives.”

“You know I am thorough in my methods--”

“Spock. Humour me.”

Spock nodded curtly. “I had indeed hoped to,--” he paused and searched for the right words,. “T--to make this man’s acquaintance further, in a personal sense. However, I do feel that he may have been targeted-- and, whether this targeting was due to any guilt on his part, or heroics, is not for me to judge.”

“All right. That’s honest enough. But you are not to involve him.” Bones punctuated his words with a finger in the air. “In anything. Do you hear me? He’s innocent and you keep him out’ your mouth when you talk to your superiors. Got it?”

“Yes, doctor.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was about to suggest, reluctantly, that they retire separately; when Jim spoke._
> 
> _“I’m afraid I’ve been a boring companion tonight,” he said, stretching again; inviting Spock’s gaze to take in his whole body. His torso hollowed out as he arched his spine, soft belly peeking out from under black sweats in high contrast. He gave Spock a coy look. For the first time since he had seen him since the bombing, Jim looked relaxed and in good humour. But he paused, and licked his lips as though he was having to suddenly push through a wave of shyness._
> 
> _“Say, I had a good little power nap-- are you up for a walk through the gardens?”_

The doctor’s body receded into the corridor, and Spock was left with the impression that his glaring eyes and pointed digit remained; disembodied, inside the room.

A figure emerged from the back room. Though his back was hunched and his steps were shuffled, Spock knew Jim instantly. He wore a black sweatshirt with a hood over his head, concealing his hair, emblazoned with the words “STARFLEET MEDICAL” across the chest. The left side of Jim’s face was mottled with dark purple bruises, greening at the edges.

The worst of the bruising was around around the right eye socket, and Spock could make out a fair few stitches beginning under the corner of his eye-- blows from a fist, rather than the blast. The stitches were tiny-- perfect little staples of anachronistic field medicine, the hand of an expert clear. Though his skin was so painfully injured, his face was almost wholly without excessive inflammation, and his eyes were clear and bright.

Spock cocked his head in McCoy’s direction while his eyes stayed fixed on Jim.

“Yep. Stitched up that little beauty all by my lonesome.” He spoke conversationally, but kept the volume low, as if he wished to avoid startling Jim. “Regenerator’s working just fine-- you can see the swelling went right down-- but that one was a real bitch, wasn’t she, Jim?”

Bones voice exuded gentleness, a soothing quality that Spock had come to value highly during the sporadic times they were tasked to the same assignments served together. He had often witnessed the doctor in action during the most pressing of crises. He could command the most stubborn of bystanders with a voice like a whipcrack, or he could soothe a screaming infant in the middle of a firefight.

Before them, Jim stood in the threshold between the hallway and living room. To Spock, the honey-coloured parlour walls seemed to ripple, rendering the distance between himself and this most intriguing individual to be at once both insurmountably vast, and infinitesimally small.

The effect was most disconcerting.

McCoy shot up from where he had perched a hip on an ancient wooden stool, and grasped Spock’s bicep in one smooth motion. Spock sniffed and shook his head.

“What in the hell...” Len trailed off. He was still carefully calm in his motions, and guarded against any display of aggression in Jim’s presence.

Spock’s head lolled forward onto his clavicle. He watched McCoy’s hands with unfocused eyes. Olive skin like thick satin covered delicate tendons and veins blown wide with decades of demand; plumped with effort. The thick palm, pink with frequent scrubbing; leather-hardened at the edges no matter how many times they were pumiced, immaculate from daily cleaning. A generous sprinkling of tight curls beginning somewhere halfway down his hand, over delicate tendons under supple skin. He still wore his mother’s ring, bright gold shining against the matte backdrop of Spock’s black tunic.

Len peered him. He was, Spock knew, doing a cursory survey of his physiological symptoms and appropriate reactions.

Spock shook himself again, attempted to stand.

“My apologies doctor. I simply became distracted… I--” he was aware of his own eyelids drooping, and his weight dropping suddenly. Leonard tightened his grip and braced, his legs already positioned in anticipation of a wilting patient. Training always prevailed.

Leonard maneuvered him to an armless wingback, and he sank into the upholstery.

“I am fine, I...” Spock found he was forced to inhale. “...Simply have not m--”

“Bullshit, sugar.” McCoy knelt before him and moved a penlight back and forth in front of Spock’s eyes. He put it away with a click, and held Spock’s wrist by the pulse-point with one eye on the second-hand of an ancient wall clock.

Jim had moved closer, but hung back; his apprehension clear.

“Jim, honey,” the doctor said softly. “Mind fetching my tricorder? It’s in the, uh--”

“I got it, Bones,” he replied, and disappeared down the back hallway once more.

With Jim gone momentarily, Bones caught Spock’s hand in his. “I know you weren’t treated for the shock, and with everything that’s happened-- well. Pike told me. Some of it, anyhow. Anything you need. Rixey’s great, but you needed to be treated for shock as well. Just because you’re good at hiding it doesn’t make it healthy.”

Jim returned with the tricorder and stood silently at Spock’s shoulder. He felt the warmth of Jim’s hand hovering over him, but it never made contact. Spock closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose, the slow stream of oxygen flowing into his lungs. He willed the strange wave of fatigue and sharp nausea out with each exhale. It still wasn’t meditation, which he still could not seem to achieve; but there was something comforting about Jim’s presence. A pressure in his chest eased and he let out an involuntary sigh.

A warm, steady hand finally settled on the point of his shoulder and rubbed small circles over the soft fabric.

“Alright, I think we can handle this here for now. I can’t see much more than some unfinished healing of the lung tissue and lingering inflammation. I’ll get you to do a stint in the regenerator bed-- a little something I rigged up all by my lonesome.” He pocketed the tricorder, eyes never leaving Spock’s face. He grasped his wrist outside of his clothing to get his attention. “I’ll give you a generalized hypo and an antiemetic-- you are a little dehydrated, not to mention more green than usual, and low on salts, but that’s not surprising.” Jim stood to attention at that and reached under the chair for a padded medical case and produced a hypo. “Thanks, sugar,” he pressed the dose into Spock’s neck.

“Well-- if you’re feeling better, let’s get some food into you boys.” He straightened and withdrew toward the kitchenette, the door on the other side of Spock’s chair and parallel to the entrance hallway. “I’ve got some cold cuts in the ice box, Jim?”

Jim spoke with the effort of someone who had not been used to speaking for some few days. “I-- whatever you’re having, Bones.”

“Alright, and Spock?”

“Thank you doctor, but as you know--”

“Yes, yes. Vegetarian. You think I don’t know your every dietary restriction like the back of my hand. My God, the memory I must waste on one Commander Spock , I swear--” he trailed off as he disappeared into the other room, his gruff ranting in good humour lightening the room. There was a clattering as he opened and closed various doors and cupboards, retrieving food and plates.

Jim stayed silent, hand returning to Spock’s shoulder. A crackling came through from the touch, even over the thick silk of his shirt. “I’m sorry I didn’t come back for you,” his voice was almost too soft to hear. “I-- he--,”

Spock turned his head lazily against the plush cotton upholstery and covered Jim’s hand with his own. The buzz was more intense at the touch.

“I saw,” he replied simply.

* * *

The doctor returned, snapping the static potential in the room. He carried a jade green lacquer tray, piled high with prepared sandwiches with various breads and fillings. Beside them was a cup of what looked like plomeek ; hot pink and chilled with Terran garbanzo beans added. They trembled on the surface with the tray’s movement. There was also a skewer full of now-rare Vulcan vegetables.

“Grew them myself. Maybe you could check out the hot house later.” McCoy shot him a secret smile. Spock became hyperaware of his and Jim’s conspicuous touch, but he found himself unwilling to break the contact.

McCoy rolled over a low side table in front of Spock and set down the tray, and walked into the living room proper-- a long, narrow room; crowned with a grand fireplace, a genuine stone relic from the eighteenth century. It was papered in a cheery yellow and patterned with bamboo shoots, cherry blossoms, and mugo pine. He pulled over two upholstered stools and they rolled silently over huge ancient Oriental rugs in faded jewel tones; pieced together and piled on top of each other to cover the entire floor.

“Thanks, Bones.” Jim let go of Spock with a lingering touch and sat.

The doctor followed suit, but left the food untouched. “Now, I have to leave soon, and I’m gonna have to make it quick. Security’s much tighter since the bombing, of course, and I have to find a hover that I can grab off the record. But Spock-- and you as well, Jim. I need both of you to use that regenerator. From what I hear from Rixey-- and yes, of course I checked,” he reached for a sandwich and unwrapped it. “You were far too close to the blast zone for comfort. I’ve seen my share of bombings.”

The artificial eye moved under the delicate skin of his eyelid, papery and carefully reconstituted. “And what with your classic Vulcan ability to hide any and all injuries until you just pass out cold--” he looked at Spock pointedly and gestured at him with his sandwich. Jim huffed a silent laugh. “I want to make sure you’re clear of orbital injuries. I’m concerned about your lungs. And I want your hearing checked-- yes, again. In a week.” He sat back into his chair and was silent for a moment. He stared off into the middle distance and absentmindedly worried at his sandpaper chin. “Jesus Christ, kids in med school might as well be given bodies in a blender to put back together, the way things are going.”

“I will follow your directions to the letter, Leonard.”

“Good to hear. Now eat .”

On one of the shelves sat an ornate Klingon vase-- or rather, it was made from clay and glaze of Terran origin, but created by a skilled craftsman unused to the medium. Wet brushstrokes in glaze read, in lowland Klingon, “the free house of sovroj* .”

Spock followed Jim’s eyes over to the item. It was the product of Klingon refugees to Earth who had adapted their skills for life here. This would have been from a newly established “migrant house”, as some called them.

The raids on Qo'noS had forced whole continents to migrate; off-planet by necessity. He had discovered alongside Christopher Pike many years ago that the planet hosted a far different society than most knew. Most houses were welcoming of orphans and outsiders; or at best, tolerant. But the devastation was so great that the remaining cities were overwhelmed by the first wave.

Far before the attacks had truly started, but a few years after Nero’s escape after the destruction of his homeworld, Spock had served on Klingon-- a rare post indeed. He had kept to himself and remained cloistered in the scholarly libraries, but he was granted some degree of acceptance. Klingons were intensely invested in preserving and cataloguing works of art and artefacts; including carefully documented languages; multitudes from each continent, and dialects specific to areas and clans. It had been an astounding revelation. Spock tried his level best not to mythologize their culture, but it was hard to ignore the contrast between preconception and reality.

They were notoriously closed to the outside, but he could feel in his spirit why this was so-- some things claimed by assimilation, or the expectation of, could never be reclaimed-- especially assimilation preceded by takeover. Historically, house skirmishes were frequent and bloody; and their warrior culture was formidable. But their wars were honourable and equally balanced, fought with bat’leth and hand to hand. A death was both a gripping tragedy and an event in which one honoured the lost one’s soul. They did not lay waste to swaths of warriors. War crimes were treated as the highest crime. They did not attempt to subjugate, nor erase-- for every battle was fought for the universal being inside every Klingon. The race which killed the gods. There were vast libraries in most of the larger cities for the study of various scholarly topics; but in many places there were also vast stores of original art works, artefacts, and cultural information from the entire planet.

Each child learned the ebb and flow of time; how culture and language flowed, symbols were created. How each detail of one’s surroundings came from a millennia of development, and how none of these were superior or inferior to another. Spock was a keen student of Terran history as well, and recognized Klingon societies as ones that had not had to unlearn centuries of harsh bigotry for perfectly natural impulses, but he wondered if that had changed already. They were far from perfect, but in short-- Klingons valued honour above all. Predestiny had never entered the equation; rigid roles based on gender would have been seen as a waste of energy. Sexuality did not matter. Disabled Klingons had an equal place in the society-- he had read how they must be respected in battle and given technological assistance if needed; or choose a different path.

But much of that was gone. A population decimated-- a culture whose worst fears had come to fruition, now united in terror, had no time for anything but securing their borders and preserving what life they could. This only served to further the vilification of Qo'noS.

Nero came to the planet Vulcan, and after uttering nonsensical demands for revenge for his own planet Romulus-- still very much physically in existence, he destroyed an exploration vessel carrying over eight hundred souls. The ship, its mission, and any names of crew ranking higher than Ensign, had been erased from the records.

Then, Nero had destroyed the entire planet of Vulcan.

The situation on Klingon had remained stable until the federation began searching in earnest in and around the planet, breaching their stated desire to be left alone, and given a wide berth of space. Some centuries ago, Klingons had acquired data-- small packets at first, in the form of found satellites from the primitive planet Earth long after Qo'noS had developed warp, then radio signals. Then more and more until Vulcan announced it would make contact. The Klingons had never been overly trusting, but the Vulcans were an early encounter and had useful technology it was willing to share on occasion. The Klingons knew from their own data on Earth that they were not to be trusted.

Nero warped out of range immediately after the attack. It was an easy and palatable lie to spread to twitchy politicians that he was hiding on Qo'noS; and the lie was quickly disseminated to the average individual. The unease spread like a particularly agitating rash; the growing number of federation allies worried for their own reasons of history. But no group actually campaigned for a military strike, save for the planet Earth.

It started with a single strike. 72 missiles, each sporting a classified new payload, had been unleashed on Qo'noS. The charge was carried out by Admiral Marcus and his first officer, John Harrison.

It was not known where Nero had fled to, but calculations indicated he couldn’t have managed to leave the quadrant, and the search began. Immediately came rumours that he’d used the last of his power to warp to Klingon, which would-- according to wild conjecture-- welcome him with open arms.

“I think it’s awful, what they’re saying. About the Klingons, I mean,” said Jim, staring at the object.

Another sort of rumour had cropped up very quickly in the wake of the club bombing. Spock had barely caught wind of it; an audio broadcast caught in pieces over the wireless in the cab he’d taken. Immediately, stories flew around that the bomber had been a Klingon refugee in the guise of a bartender, student, reveller, or a combination of the three; depending on who you asked.

“Easy target,” McCoy supplied simply.

Jim looked as though he might say something else, but he turned his attention back to his meal and picked at it slowly. His gaze slid to Spock-- so it was likely he hadn’t told McCoy the full story. He wondered if McCoy had revealed Spock’s own involvement in intelligence, and surmised it was highly unlikely. He swallowed a creamy slice from the skewer, the cooling sensation strange in the way only familiar experiences long lost could be.

He became unsettlingly aware of the doctor’s eyes on him, sparkling with excitement. “Huh? They’re great, aren’t they? Pretty close to the real thing, I’d say.”

Spock felt unreal, as though he were floating-- but suppressed the feeling. Leonard was palpably excited.

“As fresh as if they had been picked from a Vulcan garden this morning, thank you. Jim,” he said, almost stumbled on the name. Saying it in front of another felt like sacrilege. “Would you care to try?”

Jim replied that he had already, but took a soft chunk of vegetable into his palm. His mood seemed to lift; the apprehension colouring his every motion relaxing somewhat, and the triad chatted amicably well into the early evening; the dishes languishing on the table. They retired to the blush chairs, and McCoy lit a roaring fire in the lumbering old hearth. Jim had fallen asleep on an oversized club chair, covered with soft purple corduroy that left soft pink marks in his skin. He was curled around himself, head pillowed on the armrest, his feet tucked under himself, oriented toward Spock. He looked terribly young, though Spock placed him in his late twenties-- the soft, oversize sweats betraying a raised collarbone. He was vulnerable in his relaxed state, an abrupt change from how he looked just the night before. There was a satisfied, muted hum in the back of Spock’s consciousness that eased Spock’s concern that he had ignored Jim during the visit. He resisted the urge to tousle his hair, and continued speaking to Leonard; the gaps between utterances growing longer and longer.

“That’s about it for me,” Leonard said into the fire, transfixed by the still-glowing embers. “I’ve got to leave for Georgia at dawn.”

“Joanna?”

“Got it in one. Her mom’s had to take off, and it’s too dangerous to take her back to the city right now.”

“When does her training reach its conclusion?”

“The medical adjunct program? Oh, in around a year I think. She’s part time. It’s tough, but she loves it, of course.” He looked at a curving brass timepiece on the mantle and started, shuffling off the sleepy warmth of the intimate surroundings. “Je--eepers, I’d better get packed and get to bed.” He leaned forward as he began to stand. “Jimmy?” he said, just pointed enough to rouse the sleeping form. “Jimmy? You’d better get to bed, hon.”

Jim mumbled in reply, but had clearly awoken. McCoy laughed at the response and said his farewells, indicating to Spock that he could sleep in any one of the numerous spare bedrooms as he had many times before. The doctor gathered his medical supplies and disappeared into the back hallway, and up the creaking old staircase.

* * *

Jim was fully awake, but stayed in the plush chair and stretched out his joints, pressing his feet against the frame and arching against the armrest, arms pulled out at awkward angles. He smiled up at Spock, blinking blearily. A weight seemed to have lifted from his spirits, and he seemed rested; but his eye had begun to swell slightly.

Spock stood before him, his hands clasped politely behind his back. He endeavored not to “loom” over him, as Pike had put it, but suspected he was failing.

He was about to suggest, reluctantly, that they retire separately; when Jim spoke.

“I’m afraid I’ve been a boring companion tonight,” he said, stretching again; inviting Spock’s gaze to take in his whole body. His torso hollowed out as he arched his spine, soft belly peeking out from under black sweats in high contrast. He gave Spock a coy look. For the first time since he had seen him since the bombing, Jim looked relaxed and in good humour. But he paused, and licked his lips as though he was having to suddenly push through a wave of shyness.

“Say, I had a good little power nap-- are you up for a walk through the gardens?”

* * *

They walked through the quiet arboretum, solemn in the evening light. Looking up, Spock caught glimpses of the ornate frame through the canopy of green leaves above. Lightning bugs-- or some alien equivalent-- appeared and disappeared as though sleepy in the evening air around them. He inhaled through his nose, a mist of condensation collecting in his nostrils.

Next to him, the sweet sound of Jim drawing breath as he gazed up, eyes darting between flora and fauna though the light was growing quite dim; a relaxed smile spreading across his face as a ripple in a pond. From his elevated vantage point, Spock observed the subtle breeze stirring his blonde hair; grey eyeshadow that accented his lids. Jim’s gaze drifted to his.

Jim bestowed upon him the full force of his smile. Spock felt it again-- that strange tugging sensation somewhere deep inside his being. “Thank you for looking for me.”

Unable to formulate a response, Spock responded by gawping at Jim.

An arm wound its way through the crook of Spock’s elbow. Jim kept his gaze fixed ahead, as though again made shy, this time by the amiable intimacy of the contact.

They walked on. “I’m sorry Spock. I’m a wreck.”

Powerfully perfumed pollen wafted toward them, and Spock relaxed a fraction. His hands remained clasped behind his back, the warm weight of Jim’s hand an overwhelming distraction. They walked on over the wet, uneven stone path which meandered past raised walls which held back rich black soil.

“Do not be concerned. The bombing was… a significant stressor for anyone present. In fact, I must apologize for not immediately ensuring your safety, given that I witnessed your flight from the structure.”

“S-- is that what you saw? When I ran out?”

“Yes, Jim.” He tilted his head to better assess Jim’s countenance. His colouring had greatly improved. Doctor McCoy’s vigilance had been plainly beneficial, but Jim’s defensive posture had returned. He did not let go of Spock, but he could feel Jim tense. “I am sorry.”

“Sorry? Honey, what do you have to be sorry about?”

Spock stalled at the endearment. “I must admit to some degree of...guilt.”

“You can’t be serious. The attack wasn’t your fault.”

“No, the fact that I saw you struggling against an attacker and subsequent flight, following my call for assistance. I had intended to find you in the aftermath, and I certainly intended to intervene when it appeared you were being coerced-- but I discovered a,” he swallowed; “a survivor in need of immediate medical attention.”

“I’m so sorry. Did they survive?”

“No,” he replied simply. “Very few in the blast zone survived. I was swept up in the ensuing rescue efforts, and afterward was whisked away by some very convincing EMTs.”

Jim chuckled at that. “I’m very surprised I wasn’t stopped by one of them. It’s incredible really; I was half drunk with-- no, that’s not it. I wasn’t drunk.”

Spock waited, watching Jim’s face twist painfully.

“Do you remember any of the attack?”

“Yes, well- bits and pieces, but essentially, I do. I tried to stop him, to warn everyone…” he paused, trying to recall. “But there-- there was something right before. My neck was sore, like I’d got a sloppy hypo shot. Shit-- that’s what it was. I never told McCoy. I just realized, he must have drugged me, but I guess he was knocked out for a bit too, or his plan went wrong; because it was wearing off by the time we got downstairs.”

So that was the jab Spock had seen, just before the bomb was thrown. He cursed himself for not seeing it sooner.

“Who is it that you tried to stop, Jim?”

“Gary,” he said, and the word sparked an expression of revelation on his face as though it were a breakthrough. “Yes, that’s it. I have a lot to fill you in on, Spock, and I’m sorry we met under these circumstances. It was a man named Gary-- I’ll fill you in on him later. Because I’d been doing a bit of amateur spying on him for some time,” Jim smiled at the word spy . I know I’m an idiot, but I had nobody to go to; and I felt as though I’d miss something crucial if I didn’t-- like he’d go back into hiding and all his little friends would scatter like centipedes. Back into the woodwork, as they say.”

“Have you relayed this to any other parties?” He reassessed their position-- worrying that he had not adequately swept for surveillance devices.

“No. Well, except for Bones.” Jim noticed Spock’s concern. “Don’t worry, Bones has this place locked up ‘tighter than a boiled owl’. Still. Never hurts to be cautious.”

They walked on in silence, until they reached a point in the pathway that widened into a small terrace with an ornate metal bench. They sat, and Jim sat stiffly as though he were collecting his thoughts. Spock allowed him his space, sitting in a mirrored position with non-threatening body language, and waited.

“Spock, I’ve got to be completely straight with you. Gary…” Jim sighed and stared at his hands on his knees. “I’m terrified of Gary. He’s uh. Well.” Jim swallowed. “I should start at the beginning.”

Jim gathered his thoughts. The softness had gone out of him, and he was no longer relaxed.

“I’m so glad that you’re here. All Bones told me was that you had been an officer in the fleet-- and that you would know who to talk to.” Spock stayed silent and allowed him to continue.

“By now, I’m missing. Presumed dead.” He stopped, staring straight ahead; counselling himself. He turned to face Spock square. “I need to know I can trust you. I need to hear you say it, if only to make myself feel better momentarily. I’m not even sure I’ve processed this properly-- but I’m in more trouble than I’d think possible. ”

“You have my word.”

Jim’s took Spock’s hand. He turned on the bench and met his eyes, scanning his face. The whole-body sensation which he’d come to expect from the barest of contact between them sung like a bowstring-- but this time, it carried an unmistakable overtone of something like regret, or sorrow.

“Good. I have a lot to tell you, and I hate what it will do to us. I hate that this is all happening at once. So first,” he reached over and took Spock’s hand where it lay in his lap, turning to face him. “I need you to kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * sovroj, ‘knowledge-peace’.
> 
> Please leave a comment, I don't know whether or not to continue this fic because I don't know if anyone is reading it


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The light moved in waves, like that night at the club-- but it was slower and took on a more murky tone as Spock became aware that he saw no colour, and his body-- if he was even aware of having a body-- moved slowly and strangely, as though under water."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit o' smut in this one

Jim proved impossible to deny.

“I need you to kiss me,” he’d said; and Spock lost all track of himself.

The pull was undeniable. They’d fallen together immediately, Jim’s tender hands warm against his face; teasing the skin on his neck.

Spock holding him, tentatively at first-- palms bracketing ribs that supported them both-- then growing bolder. The kiss was as welcome as the first breath after diving under water, and soon Spock had an arm around Jim’s shoulders and enveloped him; then Jim taking the lead and winding up straddling Spock on the bench, squatting on his knees and Spock’s hands rubbing anxiously up and down his thighs. A particularly enthusiastic vocalization from Spock and Jim rose up and down as he kissed him-- then Spock’s hands finding themselves massaging and tracing the outline of his backside through his slacks.

The niggling, amorphous worry in the back of Spock’s mind that always questioned his own motives; the motives of his partner-- the sincerity of their attraction-- was silenced by a reassuring hum in the background of his mind; a connection almost tangible now-- an insistent energy that coloured his thoughts in neon oranges, reds, and pinks.

Jim’s hands worked the large tendons at the back of Spock’s skull.

“My God, tell me you feel that,” Jim said, tucking his chin a fraction so he could speak.

Spock chased his mouth to reclaim the kiss and his hands roamed upwards, underneath Jim’s sweatshirt. Jim shivered and whined against his mouth.

“I do,” Spock replied, impatient breath escaping his nose. “I believe--” a kiss; originating from whom, it was uncertain. “--That we have much to discuss.”

“I know,” Jim said. “I swore I’d tell you I’d tell you everything right away but I need this so badly it hurts. I don’t know what’s going to happen; I need--” another kiss and he sank down to rest on Spock’s thighs like he’d suddenly taken on the weight of some invisible anvil.

Spock’s hands ran up and down Jim’s waist and hips and thighs, possessive.

“What do you say,” Jim said, barely above a whisper; “that we go find that guest house.” The garden was silent save the occasional chirp of a cricket, or some small mammal darting through shrubbery off in the distance. Spock hummed in agreement where he ran his lips over Jim’s neck.

They managed to wrench themselves away from the bench and walked down the garden lane a while longer, hands chastely clasped-- chaste in Jim’s case, at least, and they came upon the guest house-- a copy in miniature of the main house; an Americanized Queen Anne Victorian-era farmhouse; complete with the slate roof and gabled windows; balustrades painted in chocolate brown and pale buttercup, spiked finials and ornate gable pediments carved into sprays of peacock feathers.

Jim entered the code on the keypad, and led Spock inside by the hand.

* * *

They awoke to find a comm from Bones, saying that he had left in the early dawn. They did not rise until mid-morning, and then walked slowly through the garden, back to the house. Spock had every good intention of making breakfast, but they ended up sprawled atop each other in the guest room of the main house.

Afterward, Jim left to wash his face and Spock attempted a brief meditation. When Jim returned from his ablutions, soft sheet wrapped around his waist. He sat next to Spock on his side of the bed, the dip in the mattress pulling Spock into him. Spock sat cross legged just behind him, giving him space.

“I’ll just start at the beginning, or I guess-- I’ll just ramble and you can ask me questions. I’m not very good at this and I’m too frazzled to sort it out.Well,” he amended, turning around and kissing Spock gently, a soft hand under his chin. “I feel a little more relaxed now, I must say.” He pulled off with a satisfied hum, his lashes fluttering closed.

“Okay,” he said after a moment, “I gotta get this out.” He studied his hands, and Spock dragged a knuckle up and down his shoulder blade. “Behind everything-- behind Starfleet , behind Terran politics, behind the growing ‘Klingon problem’ , and even behind Nero, is a-- a network. I’m tempted to call it a Cabal , like in my dad’s old books.” Jim swallowed. “It was um, an accident. I mean, it was an accident that I stumbled across all of this. I was travelling and accidentally came across all this, but when I went digging, they spotted me.”

“They?” Spock stilled his motions.

“Yeah, I’ll-- I’ll get to that. This is before Gary.” He fidgeted but straightened his back like he was marching into battle.

“This network-- a lot of it is coming from what looks like dissatisfied rabble-rousers, who’d rather see the entire Federation crumble than anything else, regardless of what happens. But as always, there are those that are in it for pure gain-- betting on which resource-rich exoplanets will be ripe for the taking in the aftermath; which resources will skyrocket in value-- especially those needed for weapon-making and so forth.”

Many of the Federation’s allies, and neutral parties, had economies that resembled capitalism in some way, and a large undercurrent of Earth’s population had reverted as well-- mismanagement and a return to divisive politics on-planet had seen to that.

“They’re watching the whole thing like a card game. It looks as though the whole point is to spark a war between Qo’noS and the Federation. It’s so easy to manipulate the public view-- you saw that, after the bombing. I haven’t seen graffiti like that since Iowa, and that was a bunch of drunk, bored kids with nothing better to do than declare that so-and-so was a whore on a bridge by some lonely service road. And it all suits the people driving this-- you convince the public there’s no-- humanity , for lack of a better word,” he looked at Spock apologetically, “in your ‘enemies’. The Klingons are a prime target there.”

“Look, I’m out of my depth here. In the last Terran war, you know the history of the enhanced humans, right? They managed a monopoly over most continents. They’re long gone, supposedly-- but that’s got something to do with it. Those who still see their own personal version of perfection here on Earth, and want that back. They want a closed monoculture of a planet.”

Curiously, Jim seemed to be rambling now. His examples grew more hyperbolic and a little less specific, and Spock couldn’t help noticing his growing anxiety.

“You mentioned that you had been discovered,” Spock said, trying to gently steer the conversation to topics of immediate concern. “Do these individuals know your whereabouts, or have any inkling of where you may have gone?”

“I’m fairly sure they think I was blown to smithereens. Except for the problem of Gary, that is. There are always a few unidentified among the dead, so I counted on that. Everyone I knew was gone; I guess they were downstairs and got taken to hospital-- thank God. But first-- do you know of Ambassador Shras?”

Spock’s ears pricked up. He certainly did know the name Shras, of Andoria. He knew of him through his own father’s Ambassador’s duties, but he had perused a news release regarding his imminent visit only that morning.

“He’s managed to throw a spanner into the works of their whole operation. It would be nigh-impossible to get him on Andorian soil.” The Andorians were notoriously secretive, and had only grown more so in recent years. The ambassador’s personal guards would be merciless, should a would-be assassin manage to actually land on the planet. “And he’s coming for one of the upcoming Starfleet Feel-good Tours. He’ll be here, and he’ll be the guest of honour; on the twentieth of next month. They’re going to kill him.”

Aside from that crucial detail, Spock detected that Jim was persistently vague.

“I see. Can he not be warned off and advised to stay off-planet for the time being?” he asked, knowing full well that was an oversimplification of a much more complex political game.

“That’s exactly what these people want-- it would be playing directly into their hand. What they’ve got planned-- it’s gotta be big, and it’s gotta attract as much interplanetary attention as possible.” Jim was growing more animated, and more agitated. “They will make sure the assassination is done by, or at least blamed on, a Klingon agent. They’ll have enough to suggest complicity of top brass in the ‘Fleet-- the more humans and Vulcans, the better.” His head whipped around to face Spock. He was flushed, clearly upset by the topic.

“I found every last piece to this puzzle. I don’t care if you think I’m crazy--,” Spock opened his mouth to protest but Jim cut him off. “You do, and I don’t care. This … this will be worse than Nero, in the end. I’m sorry to bring that up, but it’s true. But I need to stop it, and so long as I’m alive-- I will.”

Jim looked down at his hands again. Spock couldn’t see his face, but he could see the tension in the lines of his naked back and neck. His jaw clenched and released. Spock put a hand on his back and Jim started, then sank into the contact, his eyes closing.

“How did you become aware of this… plot , Jim?”

“I took a year to myself, after the first year of my master’s. Leonard was livid, let me tell you-- he doesn’t think my ‘microbiome’ is strong enough, which-- gross. Sorry, that’s beside the point. Anyway-- I went to Risa to visit my mother. Waste of time; she stood me up. But I decided to enjoy myself. I was hanging around the lounge at my hotel when I overheard bits and pieces that I certainly wasn’t supposed to hear; and then I started snooping around. Poked around restaurants, rare food and antiquities merchants and the like. I had to act quickly, and get out of there. From there, I stopped over at a starbase frequented by both Federation and non affiliated species, and did the same thing. By the time I made it back to San Fran, I had gone through seven different disguises-- a freshly recruited cadet from Russia; a prison shuttle driver, this time Italian. I picked up some FX makeup and managed a half decent Tellarite. I thought I’d gotten out of it all right-- if anyone had followed me, they certainly would have been alerted by the questions I was asking; but I thought I was pretty subtle, all together. When I got back, there was Gary.”

Spock inhaled through his nose at the name. Despite-- or perhaps because of-- the newness of their relationship, a hot spike of horror shot through him at the idea of Jim endangered. He coaxed Jim back towards himself with an insistent hand, and Jim smiled, crawling up to nest in Spock’s awaiting arms against the headboard. He curled up, still tangled in the sheet, and Spock kissed his hair.

“He seemed pretty normal at first; he said he was enrolled in communications at Starfleet. I believed that story, right up until the bombing.”

“I should clarify-- it wasn’t until a month ago that I found out about the assassination plot.”

Jim tucked rested his cheek against Spock, the barest hint of stubble an odd feeling against the thicket of curly hair on his chest, inhaling deeply as though committing the entire scene-- down the to the scent of his lover’s skin and the slivers of early morning light splashed across their bodies.

“We saw each other for a while-- more like hanging around each other in our free time, really. I figured it out pretty early, that something was just wrong .” Jim spoke more slowly now, as though he were willing the words out from his throat. “Too many pointed questions. Really sweet one minute, then suspicious the next.” Jim traced fingers across Spock’s chest. “His questions got too pointed-- way too specific about my gap year, and what I’d done exactly, for one. He’d ask questions that didn’t exactly give him away, but seemed to lead me in the right directions. When he pressed me about my visit to Risa-- again, it was supposed to be just a visit with my mom-- he started to really press. I’d been very careful to play it like I’d never become aware of any plot-- just the rising unease from those I spoke to; the odd detail here and there to lend credo to my story had anyone overheard me speaking back on Risa. I left out my subsequent stops presuming they’d seen me in disguise but weren’t certain.”

“Then, he got violent.”

“I kept playing dumb, but I started to panic. Anyone would, even if they hadn’t uncovered some diabolical plan to destabilize the known universe. He was crafty about it, but he was really angry. He saved it for later, until I told him I’d be out longer than usual with my writing group. He tried to keep me from leaving. He slammed me against the wall and tied my wrists.” Jim gulped. Spock gritted his teeth.

“He-- he had an override on his door already that I didn’t know about. He pretended to forgive me. I pretended to care. I was in his quarters one morning, a few days after, when a message came in on his PADD. I’m no slouch with the things, so when I first became suspicious of him, I plugged in an old raspberry pi and threw on a simple keylogger, and I waited.

In response to the message, Gary sent off a reply. It was a simple null cipher, and Gary the hidden message read, ‘ROGER. SHUTTLE BAY. 0900’, so I followed him. I was terrified, but I knew they’d be heading to the training shuttle hangar. Gary worked as a teaching assistant for evacuation safety, and had keys to that particular hangar. That’s where I heard the rest of the plot, albeit just what Gary and his clutch of confidants knew.

They sat in silence, Spock tracing slow circles into his skin.

“I’m sorry, this really isn’t pillow talk,” Jim said, placing a kiss against Spock’s chest and casting his eyes up to look at him.

Spock looked down at him and propped himself up on his elbows; struck absolutely dumb for a moment. “You-- I am not sharing this bed with an idea to coerce your engagement in any particular…,” he paused, considering. “…Act.” He placed a hand over Jim’s rib cage. “In fact, I am preoccupied with an urge to hunt down and maim this man.” Beaming, Jim surged up to kiss Spock’s lips, and he sighed as Spock eased him down into the mattress, a hand on the point of Jim’s hip, the other supporting his head.

They spent long hours exploring each other. They shared open mouthed kisses; Jim’s cry echoed through the room, not fearing being overheard in the big, empty house. His fingers massaged Spock’s scalp and traced delicately over his ears. Jim’s hand joining Spock’s where it gripped his plump backside, silently imploring Jim to fill his mouth with his cock and he rolled his spine and came down his throat.

They twisted in the sheets until it was one amorphous pile of soft bedding. Jim’s kisses-- his tongue and the hint of his teeth nipping up and down Spock’s lean torso and down to envelop the head of his cock in his soft mouth; sucking sloppily and pulling off at the last moment.

The feeling of Jim, slick and relaxed and open and hot as he sank down, straddling Spock; their hands entwined.

Slow at first, then bouncing. Rocking. Jim’s cock, stiff; untouched. Spock’s own shouts as he gripped Jim’s middle and pumped into him over and over, filling him.

Jim holding him through the last of it, leaning down to cradle Spock’s head. Peppering his face with kisses, his thighs trembling with the stretch; reveling in the sensation of Spock buried deep inside him and shaking through the last of his orgasm. Jim, screaming out as Spock brought a slick hand to his cock at the last moment and thrusting inside again despite his overstimulated nerve endings; Jim’s come dribbling down his fist.

Still cradling Spock’s head-- Jim, looking at Spock with adoration, and they fell into the sheets, struggling to slow their breathing.

The two of them unable to do anything but breathe each other’s air.

Jim finally managed a deep breath, and Spock replied with a half-formed grunt. Jim smiled, radiant-- and laughed. A long, happy sigh. “Exactly,” Jim said, and kissed Spock’s chin and falling immediately asleep.

* * *

“Gary, hey--” Jim smiled easy; he had to shout above the crowd.

Spock hardly ever dreamt. His mother said it was normal-- for humans. But as he grew, he found it unnecessary to enter REM sleep, and as with most other Vulcans, he mediated for rest.

The light moved in waves, like that night at the club-- but it was slower and took on a more murky tone as Spock became aware that he saw no colour, and his body-- if he was even aware of having a body-- moved slowly and strangely, as though under water.

Gary draped an arm over him, and Spock became aware that he was not in his own body, but Jim’s-- or just above and behind Jim’s. The arm was heavy and just this side of insistent, though to any outside observer it would appear that he was resting his weight against a friend. He radiated heat through his grey shirt and as Spock looked toward him, seeing through Jim’s eyes, he was met with pupils blown wide, glazed over with a sheen of grey, and a predatory smile that seemed to stretch wider with every second and curled at the edges.

Faces looked at them and seemed to be smiling and Spock recognized them as Jim’s friends; but they were hard to take a solid look at, as though they were combined with other faces from encounters past, or unknown people from Jim’s childhood. They smiled at them, unseeing; unaware of the danger that lurked beneath Gary’s skin and rippled like a slithering serpent. Jim felt the nagging urge to make the encounter look normal, but he itched to run; to fight, to get away at all costs. He couldn’t. He was frozen to the spot. Spock, too, tried to move and he made to shout-- but no sound would come.

Jim began to breathe too rapidly as he kept staring at Gary’s face as though under a spell. He moved a hand to Jim’s rib’s, possessive, and moved his hips around so they stood face to face, bodies pressed together. Jim slapped at him now, the panic rising; and everyone just kept looking. Starting. Jim yelled but no-one save Spock could hear him, invisible though he was. Finally, with monumental effort, he pulled back his elbow-- Gary’s arm still around his neck, his jack-o-lantern face moving closer and closer-- and punched him square in the jaw. The entire movement was agonizingly slow, but Jim kept up the effort through every second and managed to stun him.

“Oh, now don’t be like that,” Gary said. His eyes took on an unnatural glow and the circle of people around them faded out of focus as a wall of otherworldly steam rose around them, and now all Jim could see, save for the shadows of his friend’s absent faces, was Gary.

Gary squared his jaw, raising his chin and looking down at Jim, his eyes glowing brighter by the second.

He opened his mouth wide, like a python might when faced with a particularly large kill, and reached a hand down his own throat. Jim was again frozen to the spot in horror, Gary’s eyes fixed on him. Finally, the hand emerged again. He was holding a bright red pomegranate; the only spot of colour in the entire scene.

Gary swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and he wiped his chin.

“Now look what you’ve made me do.”

Holding the pomegranate aloft, he tossed it into the air and it exploded.

* * *

“No!” Jim shouted, sitting bolt upright.

Spock had awoken a second before. He found he was similarly affected, and looked down at his hand. It held fast to Jim’s own; when he pulled away he found it was stiff from clutching.

Jim turned around to sit at the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and his elbows pressed painfully into his thighs. After a minute, he turned over his shoulder to look after Spock and found him awake.

“I’m.. I’m so sorry about that.” He cleared his throat. “I haven’t had a dream like that since-- well, not for a while. Please, go back to sleep. I’m going to get some water.”

“Do not trouble yourself-- a glass of water?” Spock clarified, rising to retrieve it.

Jim looked somewhat put off. “Uh, yeah. Thanks.” He looked down at his hands and stayed seated.

Spock padded down to the kitchen to fetch water. The house was pitch dark save for the running lights on kitchen appliances, and the hint of moonlight that came through the window above the front door. He filled a large glass and hurried back up the stairs.

“Thanks,” Jim said when he returned. He drank in silence as Spock pulled over the vanity chair and sat a respectful few feet away. Jim emptied half the glass before he spoke again. “I-- I guess what happened shook me up more than it should have. I had a dream about Gary.”

“Jim, I must stop you. I must confess that I am privy to the contents of your dream, and I apologize that--”

Jim’s face fell. “You what ? Did I say--”

“No, Jim. As I am Vulcan--”

“Oh. Oh my god.” He inhaled rapidly through his teeth and his back became rigid as though he was poised to run and he gripped the glass in his hands so tightly it might have cracked in his hand. “How the hell could I have forgotten, I--”

“I am sorry, Jim. As a rule, I shield myself from others’ thoughts, but due to our…” he looked down at his own hands and watched detachedly as he picked at the cuticle of his thumb, the hand that had held Jim’s only minutes ago; and far more intimately just hours prior. “...Due to our proximity and physical contact,” he continued, “I am afraid I was witness to your dream, or at least to impressions of it. I--”

“I think I’d better go,” Jim said, standing abruptly. He studied the glass once more as though deciding whether to slam it down on the bedside table, and ended up taking it with him.

Spock stayed seated and nodded, avoiding Jim’s eyes. Jim marched toward the door.

“My god, how could I have been so stupid,” he wondered aloud as he reached the threshold. Spock turned around, peering around the back of the wingback. Jim hovered, hand on the doorknob. It hung in its frame, ajar, as though waiting for his decision. The hallway beyond was black and Jim’s body blocked the light through the window from illuminating what lay beyond.

“My god, I have no idea who you are.” The rate of Jim’s breathing rose, and he gripped the doorknob so hard that tendons rose visibly under the rough skin at his elbow. His head was bowed and tapped the corner of the door in staccato. “You could be anyone,” he said, only to himself; as he began to shake and shiver. Spock rose to follow him, but he slipped out the door without a sound and slammed it behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Incredible,” Jim repeated. The nagging worry-- that this would all be too alien for Jim; not simply invasive or a faux pas-- dissipated. “Absolutely incredible. I must confess I never put much stock in dreams, but when it comes to these guys, I’ll take anything I can get. What do you make of it?”_
> 
> _“While subconscious activity is certainly not to be taken as a direction; at least without considering the real facts of a given situation,” Spock began, “I do believe that the random associations made in the mind should not be dismissed outright. The sleeping mind makes connections which may have been impossible to consider while awake. As for the particulars of your dream, I am unfamiliar with much of Terran archetypes; however--”_
> 
> _Jim was smiling at him. Spock frowned, unsure what it was he said that may have been construed as humorous._

Jim awoke in Leonard’s room. It was far from the guest bedroom, with a separate balcony in the polygonal tower that made up the third floor-- inaccessible save by the central staircase. Spindlework graced the balcony railing and cast ephemeral shadows through the high leaded picture-windows. It was a large room, painted in an airy seafoam. Jim sprawled in the four-poster bed, his face shaded from the morning sunlight by the thick cut velvet curtains in a deep teal. They were drawn back in no particular order. Jim watched the muted dappling of light dance over the duvet, plush in scarlet medallions on a pale gold background.

He was painfully alone.

After using the blindingly bright en suite, he selected a pair of thin grey sweats from the lumbering old wood dresser with some feeling of guilt at the amount of liberties he was taking at Bones’ expense. He shrugged on the oversized sweater from the previous day and padded down the stairs, the worn carpet runner scratchy on his bare feet. Spock was nowhere to be seen, and Jim felt more than a bit of guilt at chucking him out. But he had left, and Jim hadn’t had anything to fear from him-- not yet, anyway. Still, he cursed himself-- meeting someone was one thing, but letting him in on something so life and death so soon, and then jumping into bed with him... Not only that, Jim thought. He had done this at a time when he had very few paths of escape.

Stupid.

* * *

Jim appeared in the laundry-room doorway.

“There you are,” he said. “I didn’t see your boots by the door, so I worried you’d already left.”

Spock stayed silent, but stopped folding the sheet he was holding, giving Jim room to speak.

“I’m sorry about last night. I was embarrassed, mostly. If Bones said you were trustworthy then, well; you must be.”

Spock finished folding the white sheet and laid it atop the crisp pile he had amassed. “Please, do not apologize. I--”

“No, it’s alright. Really. This whole thing with Gary has me on edge. I know full well that Vulcans are a telepathic species. It’s not your fault, and you tried to be honest with me.”

“Nevertheless, I should have addressed the issue from the outset. When we met-- I had not anticipated such a strong reaction from a proximity meld--”

Jim smiled despite himself. “Is that all that was? And here I thought I was special.” Spock was taken aback and he must have shown it in his eyes, because Jim winked at him to emphasize that he was joking.

“I must confess that the feeling was entirely new.”

Jim’s eyes widened. “Seriously? I mean, I was joking; I thought maybe that was how particularly good chemistry with a Vulcan would feel, IF--” he was blushing a little bit, which Spock found especially endearing considering their relative positions over the last 48 hours.

“Yes, Jim. ‘_Seriously.’_”

“Oh. Well, in that case--” Jim strode toward Spock and took his hands in his. “I hate nightmares. I feel so much calmer when you’re around, like everything else just sort of… hums in the background.” He swung his arms around Spock and swung his hips a little in an impression of a dance. Spock rested his hands on Jim’s hips, thumbs brushing the waistband of his sweats through the huge sweater.

“I concur,” he said, and dipped down to capture Jim’s lips in a kiss.

Jim reluctantly broke away.

“Did you really see what I was dreaming? That’s…incredible. I hate telling people about them most of the time, but if I didn’t have to…” They moved to lean against the well-worn machines.

Spock relayed the dream in brief, including the part where he observed unable to act; and Jim nodded the whole way through.

“Incredible,” Jim repeated. The nagging worry-- that this would all be too alien for Jim; not simply invasive or a faux pas-- dissipated. “Absolutely incredible. I must confess I never put much stock in dreams, but when it comes to these guys, I’ll take anything I can get. What do you make of it?”

“While subconscious activity is certainly not to be taken as a direction; at least without considering the real facts of a given situation,” Spock began, “I do believe that the random associations made in the mind should not be dismissed outright. The sleeping mind makes connections which may have been impossible to consider while awake. As for the particulars of your dream, I am unfamiliar with much of Terran archetypes; however--”

Jim was smiling at him. Spock frowned, unsure what it was he said that may have been construed as humorous.

“Have I spoken in error--?”

“No, Spock,” said Jim, as he snaked his arm around Spock’s and clung onto it. “I’m just beginning to really appreciate your... logical approach to everything. It’s refreshing, especially when one has been feeling rather silly lately.”

“On the contrary, Jim,” he replied, looking down into Jim’s eyes, the tip of his nose touching Jim’s forehead. He could not resist a peck of his lips to the hairline. “Not only is it logical to feel… illogical in the wake of a disturbing series of incidents, the mind continues to work…” he tilted his head at his imminent repetition. “Logically. Your brain continues to process events after the fact when stressors have been such that one is not in possession of black-and-white facts to lay before oneself.”

“That makes a lot of sense. Thank you--” he tilted his head up and looked Spock in the eyes, and they met in a kiss once more. Spock took his time, languidly exploring the mouth below, taking his free hand to stroke Jim’s jaw line. Jim purred underneath him, stretching up into the kiss and squeezing Spock’s arm and hand to his torso.

“Here I go again,” he said, in words stolen between kisses. “Distracting you--”

“That is untrue. In fact, I feel frustration when I am distracted from--” another kiss “-- this. ”

He kept their arms intertwined where they were but pushed bodily into Jim against the smooth metal face of the machines. His hand brushed into Jim’s hair, their joined hands trapped between their bodies. He could feel the hint of Jim’s naked shaft in his sweats, filling with blood.

He inhaled, hit by the scent of Jim’s clean skin; touched with the scent of sleep and long hours of their lovemaking; underscored by the scent of clean laundry and the almost imperceptible sound of linens being washed-- and reluctantly, concentrated on erecting soft-edged shields in his mind so as to ensure Jim’s privacy was maintained.

Jim’s hand went to the nape of Spock’s neck and he held on as they rocked together; the right brush and increase of pressure eliciting a gasp. Spock moved down to Jim’s neck and nibbled toothless on the soft skin. Jim wriggled his hand from Spock’s and he threw his arms around his neck-- and Spock grasped his hips and lifted him onto the smooth machine behind them. There was a platform supporting it with just enough of a lip that Spock could stand on it, coming up to Jim’s nose. He rucked up Jim’s sweatshirt and lavished the skin over his ribs and his nipples; erect from the cool air.

“Oh my god,” Jim said on an exhale, his head falling back. He leaned back and supported himself on his elbows, one going to Spock’s hair and holding his head gently as Spock explored his body. He moved slowly but determinedly downward, toward the elastic waistband of his pants and nipped the flesh there, and Jim stroked his head with increasing urgency and played with the tips of his ears. Spock flicked his gaze up to Jim’s and nipped once more to get his attention. Jim looked down, biting his lip; and nodded, leaning on an elbow so that Spock could tug them off of his ass. He left them hanging off of Jim’s ankles.

Jim’s hand returned to grasp Spock’s hair, and he swallowed him down in one motion with a wet mouth and a hand cupping Jim’s sac. He groaned at the feeling of Jim’s hole; still slick with lubricant from the night before, and he pushed the very tip of his middle finger inside him. Above him, a long, low groan; and Jim twitched in an attempt to thrust, but couldn’t find purchase. Spock tapped his ankle and Jim swung an ankle over Spock’s shoulders, hindered still by the sweatpants.

Spock worked his mouth up and down the column of Jim’s cock, twisting and stopping to suck on the sensitive head, tonguing the slit with firm pressure. Jim was close; falling backward onto his elbow and gently tugging Spock’s hair. His cries became more urgent and higher in pitch and Spock could taste the salty preejaculate leaking onto the back of his tongue. He pushed his finger inside a little further and massaged his sac with the heel of his hand as he worked faster and faster, supporting Jim’s lower back with his other hand. He pressed the single digit inside just far enough to find Jim’s prostate and fucked him tantalizingly slow, just grazing the sensitive bundle of nerves; over and over.

He tapped on Jim’s waist with a thumb and Jim looked down at him, his mouth gaped open, pink lips covered in a sheen of saliva and swollen from biting. The flat planes of his cheeks were a deep crimson and the blush continued across his chest in strawberry ice-cream patches, and over his biceps; highlighting keratin deposits on his young skin. Their eyes met and Jim came suddenly as though he were surprised by it, hot and thick down Spock’s throat. Spock took all of him down, ignoring the awkward pressure in his throat for the reward of the sensation of feeling Jim’s heartbeat in his shaft and the evidence of the pleasure he took in Spock.

Jim slumped against the wall, neck bent forward at an awkward angle and he panted. Spock was loath to release him, but slackened his mouth and slid up and down, taking the last of Jim’s orgasm.

“Guh-- come up here,” Jim demanded, rubbing his hand up and down the column of Spock’s neck. Spock released him from his mouth with a pop, and Jim shuddered and smiled, back arching as his softening cock twitched one last time. “Please?”

Spock pulled his finger free of Jim’s entrance slowly, watching Jim squirm with a smirk, and rubbed the excess lubricant onto his naked thigh. He gripped Jim’s hipbone and covered his body with his own and met him in a hungry kiss, Jim’s curious hand snaking down Spock’s torso in a lazy path to his own shaft; hard and aching where he had left it ignored.

“It is-- I do not require--”

“Bullshit,” Jim said with a wink and a nip of Spock’s lip, exhaling hot breath across Spock’s face. He strained to sit up, and the backs of his fingers tapped a rhythm over the front of Spock’s briefs. He groaned at the feeling of a cooling wet spot.

Spock met his eyes and melted into the embrace, nodding his acquiescence. He closed his eyes and fell into the kiss once more as Jim's clever hands snaked underneath the fabric and gripped him firmly, and Jim held him as he rocked into his closed fist; a strong hand stroking encouragement over his back.

“Wait, I--” Jim released him for just long enough to divest himself of the sweatshirt. “Okay,” he tossed it aside and nudged Spock’s briefs down his ass far enough to free his cock, his sac sitting just over the top of the waistband. He scooted forward and leaned down to spit onto the cockhead peeking out from his hand. Muscular strength seemed to abandon Spock completely and he felt as though the only thing in the world supporting his weight were Jim’s hands on him and the magnetic force of their kiss, imploring him ever upwards, kissing him and murmuring praise and encouragement and holding on as Spock lost himself; mewling and shuddering, then finally splashing ejaculate over Jim’s soft belly.

Jim peppered his face with kisses and stroked his face with his free hand, holding Spock until he was oversensitized. Spock collapsed half on top of him heavily, legs shaking and threatening to give out. Jim kissed him and slid forward until he stood on his toes, then guided Spock down with him and they sat on the cold floor together in a heap, Spock’s head on the pillow of Jim’s broad, barrel chest; listening to his strange heartbeat echo in his chest cavity. He stroked random patterns over Jim’s fleshy torso, tickling him. Jim reached over and grabbed a blanket that had fallen off with them to the side and tossed it over Spock and kissed his hair.

* * *

The thump of the cycle’s end concluded Spock’s brief slumber, Jim still sleeping behind him. Spock blinked slowly, surprised he had nodded off. He had not done so the night previous; he had languished about in their shared bedroom, tidying up quietly until there was nothing left to tidy, and gathered his few belongings together in preparation to leave. He had then snuck down the stairs and found his boots so that he could go out into the garden and do the same to the small guest house. He opened the huge wrought-iron and glass doors, shaped like a cathedral window to the night air, cloistered by the covered garden. He breathed in, deep and satisfying; until his lungs hit a painful catch, and he doubled over; coughing. He sank to his knees, slender hand lit by moonlight against the black metal frame and slumped over and bit the skin on the inside of his elbow as the air was forced out of him over and over. For long moments, he was unable to breathe in as his diaphragm spasmed and the hacking cough turned to phlegm ran through with green veins of blood.

At long last, he caught a breath-- shaky and rough, like a man saved from drowning. He slumped in the pose of a child, head resting against the cool tile, and breathed in and out slowly; another cough and he slapped the floor with his flat palm as if to warn off the next bout of coughing.

He stood, hands resting on a shaky thigh as he rose one leg at a time, and walked stiffly and slowly out into the garden. He found it necessary to stop every few metres-- leaning heavily on an old [metal] chair here, a low garden wall there; a tree, and then finally the ornate railing on the steps up to the guesthouse, done in miniature to keep in proportion.

He stumbled up the steps and found he was panting by the time his hand found the door handle. He climbed the staircase to the loft and the mussed bed and fell headfirst into the mattress, all thoughts of continuing his task disappearing.

He felt the same catch now, as his breathing rate increased as he woke from his short slumber-- he willed it down successfully; though the tickle remained, ominously. Jim stirred above him and stroked his back underneath the clean white blanket. Spock heard a rumbling and took a moment before realizing that it was a sign of hunger.

“I believe a meal is in order,” he said, unwilling to raise his head from Jim’s warm torso. He traced a finger over his belly and up over his smooth chest, laying a half-formed kiss to the skin below his face.

Jim laughed and the vibrations boomed through Spock’s ear where it lay against him. His fingers ran through Spock’s hair and over his upper arms. “I think so-- but first--” another, self-conscious laugh. Spock marveled at the idea that this magnificent creature could ever feel as though he should hide, and yet found the trait endearing. He ran his knuckles over the soft trail of fuzz underneath Jim’s navel. “Ha-- come on, we’ll never get out of here. Up up.”

They shared a shower and took entirely too long, Spock’s back flat against the tile as he looked down through rivulets of water at Jim’s piercing blue eyes; his mouth full with Spock’s shaft and a hand fisting his hair.

Spocks’ shields were still raised, but Jim had no such defences-- yet Spock got the distinct impression that he was intentionally broadcasting how much he enjoyed wrenching pleasure from Spock in any way he could. They finished with Spock sliding down the wall in an undignified squat, kissing Jim in the soaking wet; the taste of himself on Jim’s tongue an intoxicating and heady surprise, their hands entwining over Jim’s prick as he screamed his delighted climax in the tiny room. They finally got up the energy to quickly shampoo each other’s hair and headed downstairs to find food.

They headed into the kitchen and Spock raided the larder while Jim found water glasses. A lonely one sat in the sink from the aftermath of Jim’s nightmare and he stared blankly at it for a moment while he filled another; the water rising over the top and soaking his hand. He started, and poured some of it out, drying the glass and his hand on a clean towel that hung below the ceramic apron sink. He filled the second before turning to Spock.

“I really am sorry about last night, Spock. Any friend of Bones’ really is a friend of mine. You didn’t deserve that and you’ve shown you can be trusted thus far.”

Spock nodded, considering his words. “Apology accepted. But Jim-- you are within your rights to request that you be left alone, regardless of the reason.

Jim gulped. “I-- you don’t know how much I appreciate that, really. There… there were times in my life where a simple request like that would, uh. It wouldn’t end well, shall we say.” He beamed at Spock but his eyes were sad. He tipped his head in the direction of the patio in the back of the property. “Let’s go eat, huh?” He walked out of the kitchen, water glasses in hand. After retrieving their soup from the induction heater, Spock followed.

They pulled out the metal chairs with a scrape on the rock and sat. Jim was disheveled but his face had a glow about it. He wore a pair of fitted grey slacks and a soft white t-shirt that was tucked into the high tailored waist. He tucked his chair in and rested his forearms on the table. Spock laid a hand over Jim’s.

“This is nice-- terrible time for a date, really; awaiting a disaster like we’re watching an avalanche come in.” He turned over Spock’s hand and brushed his thumb over Spock’s bony knuckles.

“To everything, there is a season, Jim.”

There was that beatific smile again, light dancing in Jim’s eyes like softly falling rain.

“I suppose so. I hope our season comes. One day.” He winked at Spock and pulled his hand away with an apologetic pat and tucked into his soup. “This is the, uh-- I’ll botch this…”

“Plomeek? Yes, Jim; or a semblance of it. I--” he brought the steaming spoon to his face to smell it. “Ah, I was mistaken. I see McCoy has indeed procured all of the required spices. This is indeed genuine Plomeek.” He ignored the niggling sensation of worry as he realized he had not noticed this detail on the night of his arrival. “The chick peas, however, are an abomination.”

Jim snorted a laugh, turning to his arm in order to avoid a disaster. “I always liked them. Have you ever tried hummus? I make a wicked hummus. I wonder if he’s got the ingredients,” he mused.

They shared a comfortable conversation for the duration of their meal; the leftover soup and a medley of prepared vegetables, both Terran and Vulcan origin that MCCoy had harvested from his hothouse. When they had set the plates aside and sat sipping the glasses of water, he asked Jim how he came to know the doctor, a man Spock was so closely acquainted with and valued so highly.

“Ah yes-- I should have cleared that up probably. I thought Bones would have mentioned that, but he’s very aware of privacy, you see. Anyway, I know him from way back. My mom is still a commissioned officer in the fleet you see, and we’ve always been friends with Pike. Bones served with him, and when Pike had layovers on Earth for long stretches of time, he’d come and stay with my mom and my brother and I.” Jim’s eyes darted down to the table for a split second.

“McCoy would always come with him if it was longer than a week; his daughter Joanna was in the area at the time and he could go and see her. After I-- I went away and when I came back, my mom remarried, and the visits stopped. But Pike was always there for me and so was Bones. He um-- we got closer after I-- well, I was ill for a long period of time, you see; and he was my attending physician just by happy accident. And the rest is history-- he moved into this old rambling place when he got the position with the medical complex. I come and visit when I can. He’s a good man. How do you know him?”

Jim kept his communicator in a chest of drawers next to the front door, the lumbering old dark mahogany looming over terracotta tile floors in the entryway, the mirrored closet door across from it amplifying what moonlight came through the sidelights. It chimed on low priority a few times over their stay.

But on the strange and final day, it sang out in priority one, and the noise carried up with the air to their shared chess game-- the two mirrors of each other-- silhouetted by moonlight, clad in light sleepwear and sharing the task of avoiding Jim’s nightmares. He said the frequent rush of endorphins was easing his fixated mind, with a suggestive wink and the shrug of one shoulder to his chin, gazing under his eyelashes. But his eyes were growing dark with lack of sleep and his still-healing eye showing signs of inflammation.

He had politely declined several offers from Spock to intentionally relieve his suffering through his touch, but he simply looked at him, wistful.

“Knight to A4. Wait--” he leaned back in the chair. A cricket chirped in the near distance. “Yes. Knight to A4.” He set down the onyx piece with a clink on the top level of the glass chessboard.

A distinct word appeared in Spock’s mind and expanded with his breath.

_“Infatuation”_

The word was whispered and Spock experienced it in Jim’s voice. It was not a sound, but an impression of a sound that was so strong that it also caused a fluttering double image of Jim before him, as though in this universe he saw him as starting stoically straight ahead, and in another-- Jim breathing the chastisement into his own chest with a covered hand as though trying to suppress the thought.

_“Infatuation”_

Spock kept his face and mind impassive to the outside observer.

_“Jim?”_

Jim jumped, his eyes blinking; the impression ceased to exist.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He yawned and rolled his shoulders, sitting up.

_“Idiot.”_

This word came as a violence from Jim’s mind-- in a voice unfamiliar to Spock; the gruff bark of a middle-aged human man. Another image-- Jim flicking in and out of reality; his own hand fisting in his hair painfully as he seemed to grow younger by the second-- a blonde boy of no more than fifteen. Patches of hair shaved messily behind his temple, purple lines of split skin and black stitches running over the scalp. His eye, the lid, ensanguined from a fresh gash in his purpling cheek. His gaze: determined. And above all, suspicious.

His eyes: brown.

The impression went away again and Jim licked his lips and swallowed.

“Check mate, Mister Spock.”

He swallowed again, dry. “Would you care for a drink, Jim” he asked, regarding him carefully. There was a danger here--

Silence.

“Jim, are you troubled?”

“No, I--” Jim looked to be on the verge of panic. “I--” he held out his hand. It was soft and unmarked, large veins uninterrupted by widened sections from hard labour. A few hairs caught the light, but they were scant and fine. Spock took Jim;s hand in his and held it firm in a pastiche of a pact-making ceremony. Jim met his eyes, his jaw clenched shut, grinding.

“Please-- do not be frightened in advance of my reaction.”

JIm bit his lip. “I’m going to scare you off with this, I know. But I might not survive the week, so…. Spock?”

Spock looked up at him unable to speak, but held him closer, thumbing his skin absentmindedly. His eyes darted across Jim’s face.

“I’m in love with you. I know, it’s insane; but I had to tell you, just in case.”

“I feel the same,” he replied, after a bewildered second.. He himself had no explanation for the way their minds connected.

“Jim. I love you.”

* * *

Jim’s comm trilled.

The house was filled with the sound. Jim spooked, and gripped Spock's hand painfully. He held on for a few seconds, then stood up abruptly, slowly releasing Spock’s hand.

“Sorry.” He swallowed. “I should get that.”

But Jim strode toward his small pack and his tidy grey sport jacket, stuffing it all under his arm. Jim’s throat bobbed up and down as he moved toward the door.

“Jim, what is going on--” Spock said, concerned. He was instantly on high alert, but nothing save the trilling device was amiss.

“I have to pick something up. I’ll--,”

“We must take precautions, Jim, I can leave you alone, but it is safest--”

“No, no, hon. It’s fine, really, I--”

Spock was beyond being suspicious of Jim’s character, but experience had taught him to never underestimate the reach of one’s enemies. A soul could be twisted into fantastic and unfathomable shapes, with the right direction, sometimes beyond recognition. But knowing Jim’s nature... and he had to admit, in a rather more intimate nature than he was aware was possible, without a bond-- and to another Vulcan, at that. He admitted he wondered at times if his father had been made cold and distant due to a lack of a Vulcan-Vulcan bond, in his more horribly bitter moments, mind filled with grief at his father’s cruel rejection.

But Jim turned as Spock followed him to the door-- slow as though not by his own volition. Jim stopped and reached his hand out to Spock. He laid it on Spock’s cheek and he smiled as he moved it, albeit awkwardly and erroneously, into the semblance of the meld points.

The energy buzzed and snapped with a force that hand no right to come from a human, Vulcan partner or not.

“I’m sorry. I’ll try-- I will come back.”

He left his communicator on the stairs.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock follows Jim and his nose for danger; Commander Pike is having a bad day, and Uhura takes no shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for non-graphic violence.

Silhouetted by moonlight was a tall figure, standing at her window; looking out at the soaking street below.

Nyota slammed her back against the wall on the hinge-side jamb. She wasn’t stupid enough to lose her phaser at least, she thought; as she extracted the weapon from her thigh holster. It was helpfully hidden by her outfit- a long sleeved, black wool mini-dress that came to her upper thigh, with a nehru collar. There was no-one in the other rooms-- her building was less than homey and a break had been extended to all midshipmen, given the recent attack. She drew the phaser and it slid silently out of the holster and across her opaque black silk leggings. Her bag she slung across her chest with the weight at her rear, and held the phaser with both hands. She held her body flush against the wall, head tipped back. She swallowed. She was no longer crying-- that was a plus.

She flipped the setting to ‘kill’ , and fired a long beam-- at the locked electrical panel at the end of the hall.

Everything went black, including the migraine-inducing light she’d complained about since freshman year.

She wasn’t even frightened anymore-- she was pissed off. She drew in a long breath through her nose to steady herself, then whipped around and entered the room; phaser pointed straight at the intruder’s head. She was not afraid but, like her grief over Gaila, her body reacted to it without her.

“Freeze. Hands in the air, asshole.”

The figure turned slowly, hands raised.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Cadet Uhura--”

“Watch it. I said, who the fuck are you. Explain yourself.”

“I am Spock, of Vulcan.”

“Nice to meet you. Next question. What are you doing here, and why should I let you live?”

She’d had enough of this shit. Not only were her friends all in various stages of shock and grief from the club bombing-- she’d just returned from a triple funeral , for fuckssakes-- Gaila was missing and presumed dead.

She kicked the door closed behind her and it slammed shut-- he hadn’t broken the lock, then. “Did you pick that, or did you steal my keys?”

“I regret that I had to take such actions.” He kept his hands raised.

“We have a mutual friend in Jim Kirk.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell."

“Because I have come with a message from him.”

Nyota locked the door. she waved Spock over to the table by the kitchen window so they could sit, but she would be able to see his face and her gun trained on it.

“I am sorry to have frightened you. I had to make contact unobserved by any other party. you see, James has been taken by person or persons unknown. Jim is in grave danger. What was initially- I,” he stopped. He was short of breath. “I may be in time to stop the plot he warned me about, but if I do not act now, he will be dead and all will be lost. I hope I am not too late already.”

She gulped. Not another one. Not Jim. She wasn't stupid enough to trust a Vulcan simply based on race, but his story rang true.

“Fine. Then where is Jim?”

“I...I am afraid I do not know.”

The sight of a Vulcan nearing tears was novel. Several of her language instructors were Vulcan; which was predictable, and she knew more than a few humans who had apprenticed on Vulcan proper.

She inhaled deeply and made the decision to trust him.

“Spock--?  _ Kup gol-tor nash-veh _ .”

Spock was shaken. He gave up his compact phaser, and Nyota patted him down to look for weapons before heading out to the hallway to reset the breaker. He’d given her his credentials-- reluctantly, and only in part. But he was genuinely an officer of Starfleet, and the black Blank rank on his identification card was usually enough to silence the most skeptical. His relationship to ambassador Sarek remained a secret as ever, but he wished now for the ability to rest on his father’s laurels; to have the problem taken care of sight unseen, as it were-- a privilege he had not enjoyed, nor wanted, since he had used it as a teen to make the charge of nerve-pinching a teacher who had mocked his human mother go away.

He sat in the dark room and fantasized about having all of those resources available to him; a fleet of determined searchers looking for Jim. With Uhura’s handiwork, the pale industrial lighting flickered back to life, the single bulb above the small stove, and the reading lamp beside the sofa.

Spock’s contacts through official channels had all but dried up-- since Jim was taken, he was on the lam. He told Uhura everything that he could -- but once one omitted events pertaining to the official secrets act, both Vulcan and Starfleet, there wasn’t much to tell. He gathered that she was familiar with Jim’s paranoia since returning from his trip, getting worse over the course of the semester and his relationship with Gary. She and Jim had been close, but he had become far more distant. She was an incredibly adept linguist, spotting nuances in Gary’s speech patterns that led her to become suspicious. He claimed to hail from Northern California, but she noted patterns in his idiolect that smacked of an older period in Earth’s history-- almost like he had lived in an isolated colony during his formative years.

“Well, I’d like to say I’ve had enough excitement, Spock-- but this makes me feel a little better.” She returned and sat across from him, after punching in an order for Vulcan Spice tea-- but Spock had shaken his head and requested a small cocoa. She smirked at him as she set it down and he stared at it now, the steam rising in tiny swirls of water droplets that shone iridescent in the low light. The liquid was a Dots of unhomogenized fat graced the surface, mingling with frothy cream. “I’d much rather have something to shoot right now, if I’m honest.” At Spock’s request, she’d reached into a small cabinet under the sink and fetched a dusty bottle of scotch. It sat on the table and she filled a generous glass and sipped the viscous liquid without a hint of a grimace.

“I find that I concur.” The cacao was, at least, going some way to settle his nerves.

“So, did you and Jim, ah--” her eyes flicked over for a moment and she shot the last of her drink. “Are you two together? I did see you at the club.” The question was casual, but her eyes met his with all the levity of a falling anvil. He would do well to not cross Nyota Uhura.

“I do not think I am betraying a confidence if I told you that yes, Jim and I have-- had-- have become involved . I am rather, ah,” he gulped, then drained the dredges of the demitasse ; “ _ affected  _ by his disappearance.” 

She inhaled deeply and put her hand firmly on his wrist, over the sleeve of his sweater. “We’ll find him. Just don’t keep me in the dark on this-- if Gaila really is gone, I can stop this at least.” She released him and stared pointedly at the table as though hitting a wall.

Spock tilted his head, guessing the meaning in her silence.

“I do not know if the two disappearances are connected, and I am reluctant to mitigate the statistical fact that terror attacks result in unexplained deaths. However, my years in… this type of work have taught me that one’s intuition is not to be ignored. It is possible that your fiancée was taken and lives still. Thought this is a far-reaching plot, it is likely we are dealing with a small splinter group, rather than the entire creature, as it were.”

She laughed without humour. “Hah, so like a hydra,” she bit out the words, filling her glass again.

“Indeed. However, if one eschews a beheading and opts instead for judicious poisoning…”

“Mister Spock, I must say-- I like the way you think,” she said; her dark brown eyes twinkling with a vengeful kind of hope. Her lids were graced with a razor-sharp winged eyeliner and just the hint of glimmery shadow under her arched, intelligent brows. Her eyes were a beautiful brown, pupils wide in the low light and the irises were translucent when she turned her head to the window. Her skin was a creamy, warm brown, set off expertly by the rich black of her tunic-dress, and she wore her hair in a high ponytail that fell from the crown of her head to her shoulders.

“Cadet, when all this is over-- there is someone I would like you to speak with.” He was referring, of course, of Commander Pike.

She considered him for a moment and nodded almost imperceptibly, as though she had a good idea of what he was speaking of and had considered it herself.

“You know, something odd happened with Gary not too long ago. Not many people knew that he and Jim were dating and-- well, they weren’t really, but anyway-- Gary liked to treat it like this dirty little secret. I hated him for it, but Jim clammed up. But he always made sure to tell me where he was going, or Sulu at least. You see, he isn’t Starfleet; he’s over in the humanities dormitories. But he practically lived with Sulu a lot of the time. After they broke it off, Jim kind of holed up in his dorm. I assumed he was catching up on his dissertation, but I’m not so sure now. But a week or so ago, Gary found me in the Kelvin libraries and he was… almost flirting with me. It was strange; he’d never taken much of an interest me. Total rake, of course-- but almost always with the guys, or masculine types. Most of us ignored him-- and then he got involved with Jim and it dropped off. Sulu’s married, but he told me Gary didn’t even care about that, and he practically had to shove him off in a flight simulation of all places. I got really mad when he tried it on with Chekov-- that kid’s fucking seventeen.

“Gary seemed normal most of the time, but I found him a little slimy. Nobody really talked about this stuff; you know how sometimes you just ignore a weird little interaction here and there. But he started getting… sort of scary when Jim broke it off. That’s when we all started talking, and I found out that he’d given Chekov all sorts of gifts in the past week; inviting him out and stuff. At the club-- I’m so mad I didn’t do this sooner-- at the club, I just wanted to have fun, but I had planned the next day to send an official complaint to my CO. I almost forgot in the aftermath, but I sent it off this morning-- but nobody’s seen Gary since.

“Chekov's gone too. That, I’m really worried about; he doesn’t even have family except for us. And in fact, after he told me about Gary, he sort of got cagey if you take my meaning. What I fear is that he isn’t just a creep. I’m afraid that he’s, I don’t know-- gathering compromising material on kids in the Fleet, or something horrible like that. He’s got a cluster of idiots that he hangs around with; all just out of the academy who have their wings, and they run the simulations and flight tests. But with the language stuff, and the odd questions he’d ask, that was weird. He’d try and get into your head and make you want to tell him everything but if you resisted that, it was like he couldn't control his rage. I’m really, really afraid that he actually got to Chekov-- he told me early in the year that he thought Gary was very attractive. That kind of scared me to be honest, it was kind of like Gary cultivated that in the students he TA’d for. I tutor and you have to really guard against crushes-- they’ll happen but man is there ever room for abuse.

“If my suspicions are true-- and I’m trusting you, by the way-- he’s something of a mole-- and he was terribly focused on Jim. And God knows what that means.”

Interesting. Spock was appalled at the possibility of recruiting taking place at the academy, but then, he could hardly be shocked. If the ‘right side’ did the same, pegging some young enlistments such as himself as suited for intelligence work, then what would stop some ‘other side’ from doing the same? Thousands of bright young minds; many extremely vulnerable from the upheaval of leaving home and beginning a punishing regime of study and basic training, and many living away from home for the first time. Some were practically outworlders on their own planet-- nationals hailing from distant countries and for whom Standard was a second or third language. Some-- wait--

“Cadet Chekov. Is this man a Russian national?” 

“Yeah, I guess you can tell by his name. He’s far from his home, I don’t actually know where his parents are, if they’re still alive. He’s a prodigy, that’s for sure-- finished grade school by I think, twelve?

The cadet in the café was indeed a Russian national-- or put a great deal of effort into affecting the accent.

“And he has not been seen since  _ Twin Peak _ s ?

She sniffed. Her eyes had been dry for some time now. “Yeah, him and Gaila. We were about to leave. She hailed a cab with her comm and I went back inside to find-- I don’t know, anyone who wanted to share the ride, I guess. She came back in to find me, I think-- I saw her-- and that’s when the blast went off. We were separated and I got knocked out. And then-- nothing. I hadn’t seen Chekov since, hmm--” she chewed on her cheek, trying to recall. “Probably not since Jim took off to find ‘ that sexy Vulcan’ .” She winked at him and poured another glass-- just an ounce or so this time.

“Gaila-- if I am not mistaken, she is Orion?”

“Yeah, she is. Same year as most of us-- she’s a little older than me, she’s working on her doctorate in psychiatry as well as being in basic.” She swirled her glass and the oily alcohol clung to the surface. “It was-- it was a lot, for her; but she’s incredible.” Uhura looked swallowed and clenched her jaw against the resurgence of tears. 

“So," she said.  She stared at the corner of the window and downed the rest of her glass. "W here the fuck do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah'rak vashaya mu-yor: night of Vulcan's destruction
> 
> Kup gol-tor nash-veh: I will help you


End file.
